Dear Obama
Do your gardening
No water to grassroots means
sunk slaves stay water-lunged
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
From September... the way these days repeat themselves makes me mistake my existence for limbo
poetry explains
that which cannot be easily seen
that which is all but visible
You are silent
No one will know you were here
how you sit
somewhere in the back of my laughter
in its tilt
the groans in their dissolvement
sound of me sending out echos looking for you,
you looking for yourself
No one will know you were ever here
will assume that you were never here
and will wonder why everything humorous about me
seems a lot sadder than it used to.
that which cannot be easily seen
that which is all but visible
You are silent
No one will know you were here
how you sit
somewhere in the back of my laughter
in its tilt
the groans in their dissolvement
sound of me sending out echos looking for you,
you looking for yourself
No one will know you were ever here
will assume that you were never here
and will wonder why everything humorous about me
seems a lot sadder than it used to.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
hmm and when you say "30/30" what exactly do you meaaannnnnn by "in 30 days" lmao
am i done...
nooooo....
am i still posting it anyways...
yeeeessssss
"the root function of language is to control the universe by describing it"-James Baldwin
where do you exist?
I.
He
Doesn’t swallow any of his sounds
18 and Black
Beautiful
Second generation
Grew up in Maine, somewhere
He doesn’t know his tongue
they are not acquainted
its strange in all its lack of foreignness
He doesn’t know his tongue
Doesn’t know the lick of his language
There is no flag
flapping from his mouth
the way he would want
(Cuz)
Language lies heavy upon
culture and loyalty
(and)
He has neither
So he has lay his tongue to rest
its still,
flat…
doesn’t lie,
Speaks truth
only knows
one truth
only knows
one word for truth
saves clumsy sticky slips over syllables
for the 'knot in his throat' okra that
washes away
everything that had ever been in its place once
Those moments
when he is back home
back whole
are halved
are had half halfheartedly
don’t match up
to the reality
his eyes face
and seeing is believing
so, call him false, or faking
or faker
but this is real
no silent mumbles of vernacular
signal
He is trying to remember himself
into the past somehow
He is trying to re-member himself
into his culture
He is trying
not to remember his
culture
Excavating ancestry
With the strongest muscle in body
makes a mess
Sitting on his own stage
at the back of an open mic
(at the back of a poem)
Listening to someone else recite his story
II.
If you are not your past
what are you
what be you
are you
anything
do you exist
do you remember
that in your language
GOD
is said in a cacophony of collapsing syllables
dedicated
to when the earth cracked in half
spilling eternity at the smell of our birth
You are the silent
shell of what was
don't speak your language
walking image of burned homes and
deserted villages at the hands of colonialism
the thrash of “Lord” Lugard’s lessons
how men came and forgot that you already had a God
lash like whips, your tongue.
the slavery of your voice.
only know yourself
and your name
and your people
in the language of the oppressed
lash like whips
your tongue
your slavery is
your voice
beautiful left
Laughing lines like if
your people made marks in the sky
when they flew from their own oppression.
do you know yourself
like how your people built pyramids 1st,
forgotten
like you standing
a crumbling and ancient one
you have forgotten
Sitting on back of an open mic,
At the back of an
Open
Mic
dormant and voiceless
at the back end of a poem
(still)
Letting someone else
tell your story
nooooo....
am i still posting it anyways...
yeeeessssss
"the root function of language is to control the universe by describing it"-James Baldwin
where do you exist?
I.
He
Doesn’t swallow any of his sounds
18 and Black
Beautiful
Second generation
Grew up in Maine, somewhere
He doesn’t know his tongue
they are not acquainted
its strange in all its lack of foreignness
He doesn’t know his tongue
Doesn’t know the lick of his language
There is no flag
flapping from his mouth
the way he would want
(Cuz)
Language lies heavy upon
culture and loyalty
(and)
He has neither
So he has lay his tongue to rest
its still,
flat…
doesn’t lie,
Speaks truth
only knows
one truth
only knows
one word for truth
saves clumsy sticky slips over syllables
for the 'knot in his throat' okra that
washes away
everything that had ever been in its place once
Those moments
when he is back home
back whole
are halved
are had half halfheartedly
don’t match up
to the reality
his eyes face
and seeing is believing
so, call him false, or faking
or faker
but this is real
no silent mumbles of vernacular
signal
He is trying to remember himself
into the past somehow
He is trying to re-member himself
into his culture
He is trying
not to remember his
culture
Excavating ancestry
With the strongest muscle in body
makes a mess
Sitting on his own stage
at the back of an open mic
(at the back of a poem)
Listening to someone else recite his story
II.
If you are not your past
what are you
what be you
are you
anything
do you exist
do you remember
that in your language
GOD
is said in a cacophony of collapsing syllables
dedicated
to when the earth cracked in half
spilling eternity at the smell of our birth
You are the silent
shell of what was
don't speak your language
walking image of burned homes and
deserted villages at the hands of colonialism
the thrash of “Lord” Lugard’s lessons
how men came and forgot that you already had a God
lash like whips, your tongue.
the slavery of your voice.
only know yourself
and your name
and your people
in the language of the oppressed
lash like whips
your tongue
your slavery is
your voice
beautiful left
Laughing lines like if
your people made marks in the sky
when they flew from their own oppression.
do you know yourself
like how your people built pyramids 1st,
forgotten
like you standing
a crumbling and ancient one
you have forgotten
Sitting on back of an open mic,
At the back of an
Open
Mic
dormant and voiceless
at the back end of a poem
(still)
Letting someone else
tell your story
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
day25. bimbamboom( numbering these almost feels Wrong now)
She's Ugly II
M.R
takes friendship out of
depth and comfort zones for me
washed up beauty queen
no make up on
sitting across from me
doing make up work
neither of us thinking
She's ugly
both of us paranoid
that the other is
She's ugly...
She's Beautiful
day24?
um.. yes def just started another epic series (this time on purpose..i guess..whoops)
She's Ugly I
Hands calloused,
holding on to the things
you have done and said..
reaching for the people
you have loved(and lost)...
is hard work
face softened by the things
that she has denied seeing,
there is a thin line between baby faced
and brashly polished...
gleaming nevertheless
no one hesitates to kiss her face
thinking as they may
that there is nothing
but the beauty of
a woman with
untransferable history
to fear there
be that as it may...
but there will always be the question of
who will hold
those hands of hers
She's ugly
Day What ever what have you... 23
The Women I love Continue to be my greatest inspiration
Booming voice
tinted eyes
A girl stands on a stage
with a voice she wished she owned
off it
She wont remember she was here
...hence the witnesses
Women like us
find ourselves
On stages
to realize
just how lost we are
Dearest sister,
(self)
Will you remember you were here
Will you remember where you have been
Will you remember;
Where you were going
and that you havent gotten there yet
An empty black stage
"no larger than a twin bed"
An empty
black space
and
a blinding beam of light
from where the universe grabbed her
spotlight
too close to see too far out of
too close to the sun and stars
and
a girl,
who cant see
who she is
where she is going
or where she has been
orbiting around what she thinks
is her own headspace
beaming with the emissions
of crashing light within her,
stands on a stage
stands in the middle of the universe
wondering why her audience
is starring so intently
at what she perceives to be nothing
but a vast amount of empty space
My dearest love,
you are so much more
than you know
indeed a bright and beaming
celestial body of this
and every universe
Booming voice
tinted eyes
A girl stands on a stage
with a voice she wished she owned
off it
She wont remember she was here
...hence the witnesses
Women like us
find ourselves
On stages
to realize
just how lost we are
Dearest sister,
(self)
Will you remember you were here
Will you remember where you have been
Will you remember;
Where you were going
and that you havent gotten there yet
An empty black stage
"no larger than a twin bed"
An empty
black space
and
a blinding beam of light
from where the universe grabbed her
spotlight
too close to see too far out of
too close to the sun and stars
and
a girl,
who cant see
who she is
where she is going
or where she has been
orbiting around what she thinks
is her own headspace
beaming with the emissions
of crashing light within her,
stands on a stage
stands in the middle of the universe
wondering why her audience
is starring so intently
at what she perceives to be nothing
but a vast amount of empty space
My dearest love,
you are so much more
than you know
indeed a bright and beaming
celestial body of this
and every universe
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
