eating the other

im here, trapped
down
in the
belly of the white beast-
like jonah, but with no reason to repent.
how'd i end up down here?

i never gave you permission to consume me whole
taking my soul and wrapping it around a pale finger
like a spaghetti strand
i was minding my own business, doing my thing
and before i know it yr sopping me up with sauce and
now... im stuck.

im not giving up without a fight
still kicking around, screaming yelling
but you swallowed me in one gulp
opened yr mouth wide and let me slide down yr throat
while i tried to claw my way out

im not worried, and im not scared either-
ive got some of the greats to keep me comapny

ella, bessie, luis and langston
to name a few
other jazz heads and poets and artists
dancers and dreamers, too.

hoping to blow our way out,
gurgling notes from our very bowels
tryna fly out on high sweet tones or
dance on dissonant chords
come out with heads held high-

ready to reclaim our thrones as
reigning monarchs of birdland.

i can't get hamlet out of my head

"what do the voices sound like?"

we could tell she was gone the second she walked into the classroom. mentally not there. something about the irregularity of her stride, and the way her eyes were so intently focused on her feet. like she was counting her steps. she sat down, introduced herself, and told us she was schizophrenic.

"any questions?"

no one spoke, of course. we all just... sat there.

she looked at each and every one of us, pierced us with her blue eyes and crooked smile. "boo."

we all laughed nervously, and she went straight into the story of when she was diagnosed. told us that she was popular in college, very social. except one day that all stopped and she started locking herself in her room. ignoring people's knocks and phone calls. it got harder to get out of bed each day. no particular reason... "just because... i didn't want to face anyone. or anything. i started blowing off classes. friends. and then... the voices came."

men and women. mostly men. deep, scary voices, telling her negative things. like she was ugly and useless. driving her crazy.

i raised my hand and asked in my timid voice. out of curiosity.

"...but are they always mean? are there any nice voices?"

she looked at me like i was insane.

"what do you think?"

my presidential candidate!

http://www.tsgnet.com/pres.php?id=370743&altf=KE&altl=Tuplfmz

word.

oh no he didnt???

damn.

i feel sad and hurt and confused and disappointed and mad. mostly mad though.

im grateful for wonderful ppl in my life (see below) and also for yogurt covered pretzels. and old xangas/livejournals/diaries that keep me laughing. and good reggae- the stuff that isnt offensive.

and erykah badu.

and james baldwin.... oh!
look at this great quote:

"Artists are here to disturb the peace."
- James Baldwin

YES.

friendz

i am so blessed to know these folk.

they rly make me want to smile and laugh and love so hard it makes my heart&head burst, but...

i dunno.

i watched her as i held her hand and
i wanted to run away, too.
let's go to new york or san fran or
france or england or kenya or
let's go make our own country
filled with beautiful queer brown girls
searching for a home.

feels like we're gonna be running a long, long time.
you ready?

scotch bonnet

they call him pipin, short for pipin hot, but i just call him dad. even his own mother calls him pipin although when she's really mad, she uses the name she gave him, and the shrill cry of "Willy" comes crashing down on his head. i asked him once where he got his nickname and he shrugged his shoulders in the impatient way that he usually does, and told me not to ask such stupid questions. i asked my mom where he got that nickname and she laughed and said it was because he had a piping hot temper, one that burned long and hard (but i guess that's the scorpio in him.) i asked my grandma where he got his nickname and she told me that my father had a love affair with peppers. he would devour even the spiciest ones whole and not bat an eyelash, shed a tear. i wonder if those peppers worked their way into his blood, into his skin, into his words. my dad's cheeks are always burning, his blood always boiling, his words always gave me heartburn.

ive been cooking with a scotch bonnet pepper that we found at the farm. it was one small fat yellow pepper amongst lots of red skinny ones. the outside of the pepper is smooth and curvy, overzealous and a bit seductive. but when you cut into the pepper, you have to keep a distance. just a slice is enough to spice up a whole meal, and definitely enough to burn your skin if you touch it. i grew up being afraid of this pepper in the same way that i was afraid of my father's temper. but i've missed it lately, and so i put scotch bonnet in everything. i welcome the throbbing burning in my throat without batting an eyelash, shedding a tear.

don't make me laugh

who ever heard of a 90's party that doesn't play 90's music?

fah.