Yeah, I Said It

For real: I did.  And some folks thought it was worth printing.
I hope you think it’s worth reading; check it out here:

ITCH, a literary magazine out of South Africa, published two poems in its ≠ issue. “Algebra” and “How Today Will Look When It’s History 14 September 1977″ are from my manuscript Marrow re-imagining Jonestown Guyana where over 900 Americans were coerced into suicide by their spiritual leader Jim Jones.

In the Spring 2012 issue of Tidal Basin Review, you can read a kind of old poem: Black Boy Turns Thirteen and a pretty new one: The Last Supper 21 September 2011. The issue examines the prison industrial complex and capital punishment.  Support engaged writing–buy a copy; besides it’ll be a collector’s item soon–Marrow is making moves after all.

Goodbyes, or, this poem-like thing I wrote one day

Last night after every asana, my instructor chided, “Let it go; that pose is over and you will not return to it again.”  She kept reminding us to exist in the present moment–if one pose didn’t turn out like we wanted, that didn’t mean it should affect the pose we were currently attempting.  It’s a lesson worth revisiting from time to time.

As a rule, I try not spend much time in the past except in homage.  There are things I can now safely say I will not be: a young mother, a prima ballerina, an Olympian, or spelling bee champ.  No use in whining over that.  Because there are at least a few other possibilities: a grandmother, faster than I was last year, a swimmer, a permanent resident somewhere.

So I found this today inside some notes and scribbles; I wrote it to greet the new year.  Here we are 5 months in, and it feels particularly resonant.

Goodbyes

Thank you for the scoliosis and slouching and the college years of bracelike bras and sports ones that tried to suppress the d-cups that, last year, I managed to shrink on the Middle School track where my sneakers turned rusty in the pellets and dusted my skinny ankles like that woman did me—who’s arms flailed wildly but as fast as her legs as she looped me again and again;

for being uncovered and cool and jobless in the July sun that day and what of any day when you miss someone anyway?

And for the way my knees tried to face each other like the newly separated Siamese twins on TLC wanting to see each other face to face for the first time;

and for my own independent scar-less belly, stubborn and resistant to every year and kind of core work; for bucking the trends;
because money was always more short than the price of heating oil and family packs of hamburger meat;

as independent as me, my knees, and creative like my awkward rendition of Kou-Kou and any other dance that requires rhythm, coordination;  and especially, for Kou-Kou last night;

because the world is bigger than a 15 mile tempo run;

because the body does not last forever and what is collected is only turned to ash and memory;

for a cooperative brain stem and scary people 2 steps behind.

So for Sister Faye’s funky hips and friendliness and non-judgemental-ness and missing me when I was out of touch and remembering that my birthday is coming soon and that I made Xango awkward too;

for everydays more than birthdays which are nice but not as nice as dreaming of frozen banana ice cream drizzled with maple syrup and sprinkled with walnuts for summer breakfasts which makes eating it seem rudimentary after that;

and for pillow top mattresses and ginger snap crumbs; and the virus that let me enter this new year clean and rested;

for songs that get me to work and home from work in cold misty rain, low visibility, and not enough concrete to fit us all; and for disappointments and distrust, and my impatient, imperfect, and way too serious and too independent and too certain and too uncertain oopses that make it so hard to love you;

and for frankincense and SmartWater; and what passes for hello in a nod and what passes for goodbye in a silence I secretly note on my calendar, and for slow steady angry goodbyes at that,

thank you.

Monthly Meter: April 2012

fellowship/publication submissions: 3

fellowship/publication acceptances: 0

fellowship/publication rejections: 3ish (semi-finalist for 1)

books: 0

Secret Shame: Puberty’s angst and awkwardness refuses to leave me alone.  Pretend not to notice–that’s what I do.
And trail mix with white chocolate chips.

Mantra of the Moment:
Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.    Matthew 6:34 ESV

Monthly Meter: March 2012

fellowship/publication submissions: 4

fellowship/publication acceptances:0

fellowship/publication rejections: 1

books:
me and Nina  Monica A. Hand

Secret Shame:
I really might, well probably would, for a Klondike bar.  Ice cream is definitely one of my weaknesses.

Mantra of the Moment:
“Even those who appear fearless are afraid and just live fully anyway.”
(Antoinette Brim in an October 2010 interview with Tara Betts)

rethink: Suspect

Six months ago in St. Louis, homeless mother of 2 Anna Brown, refused to leave St. Mary’s hospital complaining of pain and an inability to walk.  She was arrested, carried to jail, and placed on the cement floor moaning.  Within 15 minutes she was dead of a blood clot that had gone from her sprained ankle to her lungs.  Much of it is caught on police video.  Brown woman was suspected of being under the influence of drugs.  Her autopsy revealed there were no drugs in her system.

In late February, 17 year old Trayvon Martin was walking through his father’s gated community in Sanford, Florida when he was confronted by a Neighborhood Watch leader on patrol.  The leader told a 911 dispatcher that the 6’3 boy wearing a hood in the rain and talking on his cell phone was acting “messed up.”  Within minutes, there was a confrontation and cries for help before Martin was dead of a single gunshot wound to the chest.

And a week ago–this:
In Chicago, 22 year old Rekia Boyd was shot and died of her wounds several days later.  An off-duty officer believed a man she was with had a gun.  The “gun” was a cell phone on which the man was talking.  The person he was talking to heard shots.  One of those shots went through Rekia’s head. The officer had fired several times through the car window, grazing the man’s head and nearly severing his thumb as he put his hand up to block the shots.

Daydream Sequence #11

It was at one of my old apartments.

The unit had a large balcony parallel to an I95 overpass.  Though it was hardly a high rise building, my “penthouse” unit was at least 5 stories high.

My bedroom opened onto the balcony; in the dream much like in waking life I took any opportunity I could to go out there.

For some reason, on this occasion–a beautiful mild day–I went back and forth inside then out on the balcony a lot of times.

Probably the second or third time out, I noticed that the railing of the balcony was shaky.  I worried over it for only a minute before deciding to sit away from it on the opposite side of the balcony which was (again, as in waking life) a brick wall.

The next time I went in, I emerged onto the balcony with a partner–not sure how or why he showed up as I only know him in waking life cordially and without  a last name.  In this instance, he was my romantic partner and laughed off my now palpable fear of the once shaky, now non-existent balcony railing.

Somehow, this railing had now become part of the journey I had to make back into the apartment.  I managed to make the journey back into the apartment without the aid of the railing once or twice.  I’m not sure if there was a ladder involved or some high jumping.  But each time I made the trip–and I kept making the trip for some reason–my fear became greater until I was pinned to the opposite brick wall of the balcony afraid to make the trip again.

My partner was nowhere to be found now.  What would I do?  I knew I could not spend the night on the balcony, nor my entire life out there despite feeling like that was what it was about to come down to.  I had to get back into the apartment; to get over my fear and do what I had previously managed to do–albeit cautiously and reluctantly.

Before waking I managed to get in.  And once inside the apartment I made up my mind to never make the trip out to my beloved balcony again.  Which made me very sad.  I woke up sad.

Just joining my daydream log?  Read more about my daydream sequences here and read the whole sequence here.

Ash, a post for Trayvon Martin

Friday was a blog-in for 17 year old Trayvon Martin, shot and killed by his neighborhood watch captain.

I’m late to the party because I’ve struggled to find words.  For years. For too many boys.

This time the name is Trayvon.

Trayvon was returning from the local convenience store to his father’s gated community with a bag of Skittles and a can of iced tea.  In his hood, in the rain, he looked suspicious enough to warrant a 911 call from his murderer (described as the Neighborhood Watch captain); a foot pursuit; a tussle; then a bullet to the chest.

In the photos of Trayvon that are wallpapering the internet, it is startling how easily his face could be replaced by so many boys I know.  My nephews, students, neighbors.  The smirk, the stance, the football jersey and peach fuzz all palpable symbols of youth and its requisite lessons in self-preservation–a contradiction if not a crap shoot for too many parents of black male millenials.

What will we tell them?
Will we tell them to stand still
and if they run
to swerve, zig zag, duck,
just keep moving forward?

Will we give them hugs, juice;
or feed them black pepper
and oranges–bursts of caffeinated power–with spinach
and potatoes or rice?

Will we be silent?

Can we give them our stories
without curling their backs into
it, yellowed pages crisp and crumbling like
sepia snow into piles we sweep from in front of
our bookshelves?

Will we love them
only; wait and watch them
turn to men who fail themselves
for want of recognition?

And after all: how much can we love them
before we armor ourselves against
the rocks they will duck, dive, and still not miss;
can we give them enough to share and
if we do
how do we assure that it does not meet
the folly of a fickle hand
that claims it suspicious, unlikely, and
without merit?

Or is it the fickle hand whose folly we
plan for, march for, make our case to?
And what, when that hand slaps us; balls into a fist
to pummel us; makes our every effort
a puree of sepia snow and its own storied mysteries?

My nephew was angry with his mother.
So he ran away–hid in an empty hallway
in the neighboring apartment building for hours.
Once, he walked up the dark road from their
complex into a deserted NASCAR track.

Both times he returned home.

We want to keep them–
or expect them to return–home
yet we cannot map their way back.
Will we tell them the bread crumbs are not
guaranteed?
Because breadcrumbs have never really
been guaranteed.
For them.

Monthly Meter: February 2012

fellowship/publication submissions: 10

fellowship/publication acceptances: 1

fellowship/publication rejections: 1

books: 3

Teeth Aracelis Girmay
Blood Dazzler Patricia Smith
Like Trees, Walking Ravi Howard

Secret Shame: Running nightmares.  Seriously.  I have them.  Why can’t I be faster with killer abs?  Because I like white chocolate chips, ice cream, and sleep–the latter of which I cannot seem to get enough of lately.

Mantra of the Moment: courtesy of Aunt Frances–A rubber band doesn’t know its full capacity until it’s required to stretch.

Monthly Meter: January 2012

It’s ba-yack!  The Monthly Meter returns this year. 

It might be better named my accountability log; my Dar-get-on-the-stick statistics.  Because that’s really what all these numbers and records are about. 

Follow me on the journey.  Or walk beside me.  Well, run with me–I’m picking up the pace!  Come back every month to see how goes it.

This is how it went for January:

fellowship/publication submissions: 4

fellowship/publication acceptances: 1

fellowship/publication rejections: 2 (1 included a personal note!)

books: 3
Nigger  Dick Gregory
Why Should White Guys Have All the Fun?  Reginald Lewis
Slavery of Faith  Leslie Wagner-Wilson

Secret Shame: My driving persona has a sailor’s vocabulary and a short man’s ego issues.

Mantra of the Moment: Don’t try to do it right.  Just do it.

Under the Radar stays under the radar: 2011 in Review

The WordPress.com helper monkeys prepared an annual report for Under the Radar and here’s what they discovered:

The concert hall at the Syndey Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 14,000 times in 2011. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 5 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

There are more stats like that here…