we are spinning on a tilted axis.
growth jilted like crashed jitneys.
two clogged stacked chimneys
with ancient rubble strapped
pain packed along the vertebrae of our spines.
we climb the wilted oak of offense,
roots deeply selfish
cloaked in the pretense of need.
our greed fumbles for logic thru blunt smoke.
sinks cheap bottlenecks into scarlet throats.
falters, praying good head & a firm stroke
can somehow beckon love.
but our lady, she is old.
abused by untold lovers
bold arrows covered & pressed
firm against her breast.
we cannot seduce this cupid
with our feigning dance of devotion.
she can smell our indifference,
denies the golden offerings of heat
stained sheets that reek of jealousy.
we cannot tempt with lack of trust.
there is no cover for our lust.
& so she rejects us.
we are young, stubborn & uneasy
with the unrequited legends of life.
we sharpen our knives with cutting wit.
if luv will not have us,
we will kidnap it, carve it, steal it, maim it
even rename it.
in the dead of night,
stealth covered black, we creep.
palms sweat heavy gripping 9s
we storm upon love
lungs livid as we shout—
we have no fathers
& thus, we have no honor.
our mothers tend the gardens of the tenement.
our teachers are penniless
their patience played so many hands of spades
the jokers themselves are bent.
we’ve been back bending for centuries.
keloid whips still traced in our bitterness.
we try & kiss
but our soured mouths revolt
with the stench of powerlessness.
we are bitches who try & hold
but we are hoes
with unhealthy hearts.
we are niggas love deemed unworthy.
on this nite,
we will have u love.
we will take u in.
our bones shall know affection & respect
our crowns will grow with grace
wild as lilies laced.
rebuild our wings, love.
plant acres of answered prayers.
cash checks paid by timeless dues way past due.
from your plate we consume new food,
bask within enchanted gaze.
& if u evade,
we will seek you out in every cave.
blast you from the depths of every hell in every state.
we will hunt u love,
with a hunger that will never satiate.
It’s cleansing – the way the rain falls
Dampens and thickens clothes to my soul
now, I can cover myself like others
But / my twisted tongue prays
and the valley crumbles boulders on my shoulders
That only a man should carry.
then he despise me for not wearing skirts
Uphold other women for their softness and high heels
as I scratch the skin off my feet
for following his wide path and narrow view
That even he abandoned when he realized
it was a crooked way.
maybe he didn’t hear my cries of SOS
Or maybe he just wouldn’t admit
He couldn’t swim.
Their words inspire internationally. Boldly illustrate the colors of political change and voices options in curing our societal ills. Our fractured diction has been preserved through early works of Sonia Sanchez’s, “We a baddDDD People“. Maya Angelou spoke honestly for being sexually irresponsible as she grew to conquer her mystery as a woman in “Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water ‘Fore I Diiie“. And Ntozake Shange and June Jordan re-defined the writing style known as prose with lengthy poetic pieces. These two could quite easily and possibly be credited for the birth of “performance poetry.” I dare say we unanimously agree that these women join the ranks of men who taught us through their works the tools to envelop a devoted love for our community, children, and self love. Now, as I take on ownership of their continued path, I get lost for direction when it comes to being a selfless artist and balancing a successful relationship simultaneously. They didn’t write that down for me! Is it perhaps because they are all divorced and never remarried themselves? Do they know the answer? So… I wanna’ talk about it…
Why are all my sheroes single?
I have not found the poem or story that tells me how to be a vulnerable artist for a voice of people and then sincerely transform into his confidante and lover. The consistent downfall of my relationships are me not being afforded the space and freedom I need to be an artist. The process is very selfish and my partners understand that only 45% of the time. The other 55% is spent with their conscious or unconscious repeated attempts of trying to get to the root of my creative power. If I can’t practice my art with the space I need, I’m half a person. Which means he’ll only be getting half too, then we’re both unhappy and it ends.
There’s something intensely intimate about cooking a meal for a man
then having him hold your hand across the table and say / grace.
In between the “I love you’s”
this is how we reconnect:
I straddle and clutch on to him
for my dear life and he /
recharges himself inside of me with all I have to offer / then
me and my man we go out and change
from the poetry book, Pocket Honey, Wind & Hips
“i want her back so bad… I leave the door unlocked / I leave the light on”- Neil Hilborn
***watch passion in poetry***