an open letter with troy davis in mind
21 Sep 2011 1 Comment
written around 3pm on 9.21.11 [i cannot edit knowing the outcome. that will have to be another write]
As a black woman who loves black men and will one day share her life with a black man and god willing raise our black son(s), I am hurt. Offended and yes, scared that their lives are not valued. That Troy Davis could be them one day. That no, they are not safe. Yesterday a white woman in my class broke down in tears over her own problems. Those sudden tears led me to wonder how many black women have cried for black men throughout history. Whose backs have been pent up against the wall unfairly because of their skin? showing that justice is not just. It must be us who fill these oceans lamenting over our unfair positions. I have studied racism in all forms in college and graduate school. I have been the recipient of blatant racism from white men which even led me to being diagnosed with anxiety disorder for months because of the trauma I had faced. But I can say, I never truly understood how powerful the struggle is until today.
Regardless of if a man lives or dies, the solidarity, the action will save something. We do not know how this will affect someone 20 years from now or 20 days from now. King did not know while sitting in that jail cell how he would affect the rest of history. Neither did Mrs. Parks whose feet were weary. They changed eternity. Don’t you know that you can do the same thing by showing action? I pray that I will never have to be the woman in tears waiting for her black man to be killed when it doesn’t have to be that way. They tell us that black life isn’t worth a dime. And apparently some of you believe them and do nothing. A simple online petition to sign. A phone call to a judges office? Nothing. Not even raise awareness. As if I could never be us. And that’s what happens. Until it is close to home, no one understands.
Earlier on Wednesday, my cousin who was on his way from Atlanta to Jackson, GA to protest, tweeted that he was not an activist but that he was going. And it raised this thought: as people of color, when we protest and support the protection of one another’s BASIC RIGHTS, it is not activist, it is not political, nor is it revolutionary. It is simply survival tactics. It is what we are made of. How we got to where we are today: love. Troy Davis is a human being and the simple fact that even with so much doubt of whether or not he committed the crime, he was set to be murdered. Is that not wrong? It could one day be you. It could be me. I am afraid for my unborn sons. It could be my own son awaiting word on whether or not he will be able to live when he knows in his heart that he is innocent. When there is no physical proof of his guilt. To those of you who have supported Troy Davis through emails, phone calls, protesting, and signing online petitions, I personally say thank you. And to those who have been nothing but apathetic, Who have completely ignored what is going on and focused on things that don’t matter, Who have tried to cause dissention because many of us have facebooked and tweeted about this case so much, I pray for you. That one day you understand how all of us are linked. That you understand community is not an abstract concept to haphazardly throw around, but it is a real living body that requires the engagement of full self. To understand that we are each other not just separate entities. I just wonder, after this case, regardless of the outcome, what will you begin to do, or will you walk away?
no more smiles.
20 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment
the day you stopped offering me the piece of you i loved the most
i packed my bags
put all the love poems i wrote in envelopes
and mailed them to random men who need them most
men whose water content consists of one part hydrogen one part oxygen one part jades script
they eat letters of love
caressing curves of ‘h’ and ‘s’ and picking apart haikus then putting them back together
they appreciate loves words
my love poem adding to their life expectancy, they cherish me
but you…
you, unapologetic chucking deuces stubborn
pulling screens down and blowing smoke,
admit you can live with out
so i drop the letters in the blue box
gather my things
and hop on the next train.
if there are no smiles
the words are not necessary.
painter to poet. yet another letter.
14 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment
[the only disclaimer I can offer is that I am a fiction writer. Run with it how you wish]
Mr. West,
If you speak the words, I will paint them.
You articulate the vision, I draft the blueprint.
Together we develop and discover
New dimensions of what we’ve been gifted: Life
Freely toying with the new concept like how Adam did,
Authentic and open
And while I’m on Adam, who says I have to be your rib?
(we both know you probably started off as mine. I’m just sayin.)
I’d like to think we are sections of same spirit
Equally created re-fusing while refusing
To carry on the devastation of heartbreak, insecurities and walls put up while apart
we were kin, lovers, and partners in past lifetimes,
Never should’ve been apart
Since we are indeed a part of each other, whole
Intricate and infinite
Inherent: the particles that create the cells that allow blood flow
I run that deep in you
You in me too
And I just so happen to be a writer too
This is her, the gifted syntax magician
The hopeful romantic and healer
Speaking in only the ways I know, as I’ve told you in letters before
I write you, not to impress you
But because it is the only thing I cannot help but do
Like, glowing love for you, growing love for you.
You glow for me too
Shedding 20 years off your age become teen for me, laughing,
Blushing beautifully free with need for me
You know that this thing is more than just
Hugs and kisses, poems and pleasing
But that you also have to carry my art supplies for me
And you do it so willingly, smiling…
Which reminds me, Demetrius said next year, he will take the pictures
And if I have to, I guess I will live in Norfolk forever.
And I don’t think I will ever understand why.
Which is ok, because I know one day,
The grandchildren, after watching you sleep
Will run to me with a black and white photograph
Of a couple at a poetry show
a man with a microphone on stage
and a woman with a paintbrush in hand
and say, we know why you loved him nana
why you threw logistics to the wind
and ran with hearts intention
I’ll ask them why
They will say because you knew no other way
Because you stayed woke: consistent with spiritual instinct,
In him, you believed.
And lucky for us nana,
He did the same for you
And because of that belief
A love grew.
With all the imaginary and real love in my small body and
ginormous heart,
Your favorite lady,
jojo
today.
11 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment
watching the loved ones interview about losing their lovers on 9/11
still spontaneously combusting into tears and frustration
yet smiling remembering the syrupy taste of intimacy
all i can think is,
if you have love today, soak it up.
irene: a poem of sorts.
26 Aug 2011 Leave a Comment
patriarchal society at best
they call her a bitch, a hoe
but havent met her yet
make death threats
rant
perhaps irene
just does what shes supposed
to do
perhaps oceans water welcomes her
sea animals dance with her
party party party lets all get wasted
yes they do
perhaps hurricane
is water and winds
opportunity to make
intense love
waiting every late summer
to intertwine making mess of their love
so deeply in love
urgent and anxious for
heart wrenching
limb stretching
soul breaking
love,
that everyone else
has to pick up the aftermath…
irene is going to make love
with the same intensity
that i want you.
remembering love.
18 Aug 2011 Leave a Comment
I went to the ocean seeking honest love from them.
She sings for me. Or at least her limbs do. Calf muscles flex in song just enough for her to jump and run to me. Her love has been more than the occasional embrace in public but a constant I am comfortably leaning on. Its real. She’s real. Steps out from behind the words. And many nights when most people are tucked away, we are connected by wireless lines, laughing at each other. He is usually there. The other part to our strangely beautiful blended family. He has such a beautiful heart that beats to the song her spirit sings. I see why he longs for her. And why she feels so righteous with him although denying the tiny urge to break walls. Eventually I say. Eventually I know, I will be reading love poem at some event honoring their connection. Hehe. Anyway, they are there in the grass. We embrace. Spread out chairs and laugh. While doing so, the sun has set, yet we do not recognize its descent. Careless of us. For me I guess that’s what stress does. We talk about life’s real problems. We laugh. I’m realizing laughter is some sort of medium needed to make the words flow. Like linseed for the paint when using oils. But doesn’t my heart hurt some kinda bad through all those laughs…my soul lover friends encourage me. then he appears. I saw him when I entered the communal space. He was writing. Mug in hand. Pen in the other. He noticed me. He comes over. He always comes in search of my scent. An ancient lover still in heat for me. Heart and fingertips blazing, he touches me. Positions his head right on my neck and inhales all of me. I tell him how tired I am. He makes me sit down and places the fleshy part of palms on my shoulder blades. He rubs. Squeezes. He makes it alright. Intangible love. I am indebted. We part for a moment but I am later at his side. Nestled under his arm reading his handwriting in the dark. He shares his thoughts with me. Scribbles of vocabulary and phone numbers on lined composition sheets. He kisses my forehead again. This feels natural. Me, curled up close beside him as though I were an extension of his body. I now remember, Eve was created from rib of partner Adam. Perhaps…we…he tells the people we were once married and once brother and sister and once close friends in lives before this one. I believe him. How else is it possible he feels so safe?
An hour passes. We are face to face. He calls out the name my mother gave me minutes after birthing me that April afternoon in Germany. The name nobody else out there in that circle calls me. He smiles. I smile. Call him the name his mama gave him too. Don’t it feel right? He tells me I created the moon and the ocean. That everything spectacular I’ve done is for this moment. I tell him about the sit-ins and the revolutionary romantic in me. How I wanted to be in London. Running. He laughs at me. But it will make for good writing. Intensity. When we part at the end of the night, I have not had enough. I realize hours are not enough. I will need more. I am surprised by this…
an open letter to him.
30 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment
hey you,
i have been thinking about you since the last time you left 15 kisses on me. you started with the left cheek, trailed to forehead and down to right side of my face. then you stood back and smiled. held me long time. i smiled back. felt peace deep inside. end of night i wondered what would it taste like had you finished those kisses dead center on lips that part to say, ive been thinking about you, are you feeling ok? you rambled intoxicated with drink in hand and i watched you closely. contemplated the things i never brought myself to think. thought of how we could engineer our future to be whatever we want like what we discussed in our talk. love, you are indeed beautiful. you would be perfect seed to jade’s soil to grow flowers that sing and shine brightly. if time and earth allowed, i would offer you authentic intimacy. i would spread you across sand and kiss you under oceans waves (you do know, i am a mermaid. this is how it happens). then we would intoxicate the world with our love. im laughing now. so hard that my scarf just fell off. and it makes me realize, i want you to know me. the girl with the dry strands pressed out. who walks at night with old navy pajama pants on and a tank top alone seeking love when she is hurt and cold. the twenty-six year old girl who cannot do anything but write, so she writes you, not to impress you…but because she has to. you know, that for you i’d write poem after poem type love to remind you that you’re beautiful love? you do deserve that love. but away from words…one morning soon, we should run together. get breathless together. and laugh at the difference in our pace and stride. hug at the end of sprint and mix sweat on our skin. fall into easy conversation of why life is like running…
in the next 73 days, tempt me to love you. like i did the first time i saw you. when i was eighteen. a young girl at a poetry night clutching my notebook tightly. even if it only ends in friendship, it will be worth all risks.
damn this is honest…
-me.
when she sets.
30 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment
the sun
from canary to tangerine
with drops of pink
changes her dress
in anticipation
of libations
on western shores
beaming
while silently retreating
there is love to be made,
eyes to lock in sultry gaze
hieroglyphics waiting to be etched
in back skin surface
she knows.
she gives last smile
in red line on horizon
‘make it count tonight’
is her final whisper
winking at the moon.
we cannot let her down.
kiss me.
life, different: for amy.
24 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment
Amy baby
Is your heart weary?
Do you regret the time ill spent?
Or was it all good
To be caught up
In the hype
Of psychedelic.pseudolove.artistic.life?
Now…
Away…
do you wonder
How good it could’ve been
To dance past twenty seven
Or was it all good
Crashing from highs to lows
Palms on cold floors
Visible bones
Dark eyes
Holding soul that once had life?
On July’s twenty third breath,
Were there ill intentions
Did you lose sight of life’s definition?
Was it you had not enough
Intimate human attention
That deep down for you,
it was about more than
Being an exceptional mention
It was about personal connection?
Was the push of the hype
The bars to your mental prison?
Was it what sent you flying:
A simultaneous kicking to the curb
All while admiring only a part of you?
Amy don’t we all know you
Once were beautiful sweet girl child
With giant smile and glowing skin
Won’t we remember fingers that
Stroked guitar strings so talented
Contralto that floated so effortless
Was it all good? [perhaps that was]
Knowing of this possible day
Would you have opened your chest and traded
Broken heart and faulty lungs?
Was there a moment a new soul/mind you sought?
Or was it in fact easier to just cut?
You were right, we couldn’t help you, if you wouldn’t help yourself
So dear frail Amy,
beautiful body of treble soul behind scars and battered heart
beyond bottles of liquid and pill forms,
I just want to know if right before last 394 breaths
You paused and told yourself,
Tomorrow will be different
I will decide to live
…for it all to come to this?
That had you had the
Strength to choose different,
Things would’ve been
Different
In place of no, no, no
We’d have heard,
yes, yes, yes:
Amy choosing
life, different.
**Let this be a reminder for us all to choose different where we are not fully honoring our own temples.
1983-2011 RIP
stay this way [random collection of thoughts]
27 Jun 2011 Leave a Comment
i hope we always stay this way
smiling love drunk in some king sized bed
dancing and reminising of the 45 minutes
before the camera flash snapped
good love, wasnt it?
earlier on that dance floor
lots of laughing and hand holding
while moving to live band gogo beats
guitar riffs that made you
lose your speech and just smile at me
bass lines so sweet
you moved your hips close to me
vocals that made you open up for me
no matter where we are in this world
we always stay this way
palm to palm stupid in drunk love
face to face noses touching
or through computer screen
or racking up a G in air time
on international phone call
breathing and laughing
ending all nights with love
lets always stay this way.
