couldn't say it any better than donnie....

Giving up is hard to do
When you really love someone
Giving up .... so hard to do
When you still depend upon
Her warm and tender touch
Her kiss and her hug..........her caress
Oooooh that used to mean so much
And bring you happiness
Woooo ooooooooh

Giving up, so hard to do
I've tried
But it just ain't no use
Giving up, so hard to do
I said I've tried
But it just ain't no use
But my light of hope is burning dim
But in my heart I pray
That my love and faith in the girl
My love...will bring her back someday

I'm talking 'bout when you really love someone

Whether she knows or not
She really needs me too
The little girl is all I got
Yes she is
And giving, giving up is hard to do
Giving up
So hard to do
Heey...giving up
So very hard to do
I said I've tried
Hey, but I just can't get loose
Giving up
So hard for me to do
I don't want to lose you
Cause you mean so much to me

i haven't given up the fight yet.

but damned if i ain't tired.


if you don't quite "get it" at work

this guy might have the answer.

i was so moved, i cut out this part and put it in my wallet/calendar where i stow away inspirational tidbits from time to time:

In the end, it’s a question of how you accommodate to the horror that is office life. The communists and leftists can’t save you. You’re stuck with this system, its grinding gears inescapable.

If, like me, you go to work each morning and sit in front of a desk, you belong in the professional lineage of Sisyphus, the mythical figure damned to roll a massive boulder up a mountain, only to do it all over again when the rock rolls back down. After all, do you really make any substantial difference from your cubicle? Even if you carry a lot of weight in your office, does it matter, in the big picture, if you move 10 percent more units this quarter than the last? For anyone living a conscious life, office culture inevitably brings the onset of a mild sort of existential despair. Call it the blahs if you’d like: What am I doing? Am I just flushing 40 hours a week down the toilet? And unless you’re a heart surgeon or something, the answer is generally a resounding “yes.”

But you need that paycheck. You need those benefits. Your only hope, then, is to live in the moment, keep at it as an animal might, with consciousness tethered securely to the present. Don’t think about pushing that rock back up the mountain, about the brown-nosing yes-men eclipsing you, about the dehumanizing nonsense that presses in on every side, the petty tyrants in upper management using you as a salve for their shabby, wounded egos. Shut all that out. Just keep at it, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, moving cell by cell across that endless spreadsheet.

while i'm not nearly as resigned as the author is by the end of the article (i'd be more likely to tell the reader, "bide your time. save your money. then get out (c) the amityville horror") i totally see where he's coming from.

not all of us are made for this. and that's ok.

but i think we should cause a rebellion vs. lying down and taking it.

see srini for a more serious take on the issue (...and buy some stickers!!! or make your own!!!).


...oh and, um

somebody needs to slap the taste out of pat robertson's mouth.

he is the worst possible face of christianity. too bad his comments are worthy of news articles and not just the ramblings of a backwoods county preacher.

talkin' loud...

i have to get focused. now's the time to really start thinking about what i'm going to be doing for the next 5 years or so. i have to get some shit together. organize my thoughts. regroup.

i've been saying this for the past, oh, 2 years or so. blah.

i have some kind of creative stall going...things will start, sputter out, then stop...engine won't start like it should...it's just a mess. examples:

who's watching the city?*

want to prevent crime?
try raising children in something
other than a system...

blue lights
mask starlight
make ppl already in cages
see their fate more clearly

tangible evidence
they're out to get

is a two way street.

(*someone came up with the bright idea to install "smart" cameras on various corners in the city. you know, instead of re-opening the rec centers or getting rid of abandoned houses. more lockdown. let's not talk about the multi-million dollar hotel going up on the taxpayer dime...)

alice walker wrote of
africans with waist-length hair...

today a blog revealed
only crazy alcoholic africans
carry locs now

what a brilliant job colonialism has done
to make ppl despise
their very skin
the hair that grows from their heads...

even without the rape of resources
the battle is won;
too many minds taken
after the bodies fell.

...yeah. stuff like that. i scribbled out another fragment in my dream journal last night. it was the only paper around. i didn't want to go out and grab my usual notebook 'cause i was afraid the cat would creep back in. he's still a little too energetic to sleep in the room with me, and i didn't wanna have to fight him to get him back out.

to his credit, he will let me sleep for a few hours at a time. but that's about all.

well. i suppose i should do something resembling work. although that will be difficult when i can't seem to clear my mind....


dreamers dreaming

of course it was difficult getting up this morning....cloudy and peaceful. the rain hit the tree outside my window just right--gently enough to fade into dreams, but loud enough to have a soothing, spiritually fulfilling rhythm.

but i was also in the midst of a dream...someone was speaking to me, giving me information. i didn't want to pull myself away, but i had to get up. after hitting the snooze button a few times, i had to "politely" (although it never stops feeling like i'm committing some horrid sin of rudeness) excuse myself.

these dreams are both fascinating and frustrating. i wake up very disoriented--i'm always listening intently--and it's very difficult to remember what was said and, often, who was saying it.

the exceptions to this rule are the shaman and the council dreams.

in the council dreams, i'm floating around these "conference rooms", looking thru what appears to be frosted glass. there are figures in a room, and i'm eavesdropping on their gathering. the participants don't seem human, and i can never quite make out what they're saying or doing. it's the energy that attracts me; there's not a feeling that i'm violating anyone's space. it's more like i'm invited there somehow.

at some point, i'm whisked off to another "meeting" and look down on that for awhile. i have them every now and then...i haven't figured out the trigger for those as i have w/ the shaman. any of you experienced dreamers/interpreters out there who wanna help out, i'm all ears.

in other news, i'll be looking thru old(er) poetry and posting as necessary. so all that stuff you see in the "archives" is really new....i just catalog them by the date they were written, not the date i post them on.

peace & light, y'all.

enjoy the weekend :-)


to miss you

You don't know how lips hurt
Until you've kissed and had to pay the cost
Until you've flipped your heart and you have lost
You don't know what love is...

You don't know how hearts burn
For love that cannot live yet never dies
Until you've faced each dawn with sleepless eyes
You don't know what love is
~~jazz standard made popular by billie holiday

(penned on 12.7.2004)

your absence
is conspicuous
an uneven thread
running thru my nights

belly stays
tied up in
twisted thoughts


he’ll call
today/tonight/this afternoon

it will be different
he’ll be there
he’ll claim me
prove me wrong

i can only exhale
when you finally arrive
in a moment of honesty
reveal how much
you’ve missed me:
kiss me lightly or
stroke my face

as soon
as you creep away
the knots

i am paranoid
your early morning bathroom trips
often misconstrued
as abbreviated farewells

i never know
your schedule
because you never know
where you’re going or
who you might meet
in the mirror

i am
of your glossy surface sanity
and your lone wolf dance

i can keep busy
and tell myself
i’m not waiting
for your call
but the pain
keeps coming
radiating thru my center
pulsing with each
passing hour
i wait
for you.

you are
sorely missed
but won’t allow yourself
to be needed.

my attempts to love you
feel in vain
hopelessly romantic
or just plain foolish

this used to feel like home
now it’s more of an empty nest

our relationship
has not produced

the foundation i thought
would give rise to
great things
simply is
no more and
no less than

i don’t
hate you
i can’t love you this way.

(c) 2005 l.a.m.

had to share this

taken from the goddess room

I am the girl kicked out of her home because I confided in my mother that I am a lesbian.

I am the prostitute working the streets because nobody will hire a transsexual woman.

I am the sister who holds her gay brother tight through the painful, tear-filled nights.

We are the parents who buried our daughter long before her time.

I am the man who died alone in the hospital because they would not let my partner of twenty-seven years into the room.

I am the foster child who wakes up with nightmares of being taken away from the two fathers who are the only loving family I have ever had. I
wish they could adopt me.

I am one of the lucky ones, I guess. I survived the attack that left me in a coma for three weeks, and in another year I will probably be able to walk again.

I am not one of the lucky ones. I killed myself just weeks before graduating high school. It was simply too much to bear.

We are the couple who had the realtor hang up on us when she found out we wanted to rent a one-bedroom for two men.

I am the person who never knows which bathroom I should use if I want to avoid getting the management called on me.

I am the mother who is not allowed to even visit the children I bore, nursed, and raised. The court says I am an unfit mother because I now live with another woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who found the support system grow suddenly cold and distant when they found out my abusive partner is also a woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who has no support system to turn to because I am male.

I am the father who has never hugged his son because I grew up afraid to show affection to other men.

I am the home-economics teacher who always wanted to teach gym until someone told me that only lesbians do that.

I am the man who died when the paramedics stopped treating me as soon as they realized I was transsexual.

I am the person who feels guilty because I think I could be a much better person if I didn’t have to always deal with society hating me.

I am the man who stopped attending church, not because I don't believe, but because they closed their doors to my kind.

I am the person who has to hide what this world needs most, love.

Please repost this if you believe homophobia is wrong.


making "the switch"

i've decided to bounce over here from diaryland, so i'm picking & choosing some of my favorites to come over here with me....i think i want to make this space more poetry/creativity oriented...i can always ramble on myspace.

we are surrounded by anonymity

(posted over here yesterday...
apparently i started it 6 months ago to the day. just found it & added on...not really a poem, but...something to consider.)

woman on the train today
brown skin
matted hair in back
some braids in front
one or two locs sticking out
black tam
bracelet on wrist w/ barcode
pink plastic bracelets…for decoration
folded in on herself
bag under her elbow

where’s she going?
where’d she come from?

i’ve seen her again since
…feel compelled to write her story
but where would i begin?

does it begin as a baby
not loved/wanted on some level

it could have been a grown-up heartbreak
rather than misplaced younggirl dreams
stepped on by well-intentioned shoes

could have been anything.

she could be anyone.


a glimpse of me

(penned 7.23.04, but no less true today)

i am still that little girl who cried for 6 years over her dead doggie/ who couldn’t bring herself to fight her tormentors ‘cause she could feel their pain// learned to cover with black girl bravado and sly smiles...// most days i’m still crying ‘cause i know how sick the homeless guy on the corner is or the loneliness of the lady next to me on the subway without wanting or trying to

that girl fought demons by night / saw ghosts walk sidewalks by day / read myths and encyclopedias trying to find herself ‘cause no one in her world matched up// went to bed with fingers cramped from writing instead of atari ‘cause her fingers couldn’t keep up with the universe spinning in her mind

i’m still her// but i learned she’s not normal / so i hid her / cut her up / stuffed her in hefty bags and left her for dead// yet...her bones stir and grate against the ones i’ve grown// i’m a false idol built over a true god

how am i supposed to make a living out of that?


wow...this is still here.


maybe i should do something with it? the big switch?

i dunno.

i'm still thinking about it.


untitled (issues)

i want to say
something like
"i don't use
...i bleed thru penstrokes and
make pages drip lifewater!"

it sounds far too cliche
... and these days?
i fear those
more than anything.

the world is in serious need
of innovation
there are already
too many cycles
too much history
too many people

i always wonder
if i'm part of the solution
or perpetuating the problem.

i mean,
def poetry jam
makes everyone old enough to
stay up past midnight
wannabe a poet

every hussla's the next jay-z

get shot and you're an instant ja rule
maybe even a pac or biggie-style martyr

i write 'cause i have to.
there's no goal or destination,
no record deal or cd comp--
i just do this.
...universal ticker tape machine
running off emotional dividends
and updates on the worth of the ancestors
(refreshed daily for someone's conveinence)

so i won't really start in on
the beauty of my nubian people
the merits and/or bullshit of pussy poems or
late night thoughts of wrist-slitting and angst.

i just want to know
if any of these words have a purpose
and constantly consider
the validity
of the messenger.

(c) 2005 l.a.m.