kevin powell's open letter to chris brown

yes, it's long.

but it's on point.

i'm only about 1/3 through it, but knew i had to share.

i've known so many men who could have written this...some are still in the process of writing it.

either way, it's worth a look.

thank you, kevin, for saying what so many brothas need to hear. even if chris doesn't take it to heart, someone will.

because i'm crazy...

...i'm gonna try nanowrimo this year.

progress will be noted on the writing blog (if the widget works), so if you don't see me over here for awhile, that's why.

we were made for these times...

a love letter from one of my favorite authors...

weaning from myspace / "new" blog

'cause i'm crazy, i've opened up yet another blog.

it's not truly new since i've been posting this stuff on myspace for the last few years.  but having everything on blogspot makes a whole slew of things much easier. 

i'm transferring pieces and deleting content from myspace as i go, so if you want to read more poetry/estoteric type stuff, check this out.   

a dialogue

the players

• a beautiful mermaid
  
• a huntress, able to shape-shift into a tigress at will
  

the scene
the shore of a beautiful, unspoiled ocean. the mermaid has approached, tears in her eyes. the huntress stands proudly on the pinkish-white sand, sighing. she knew this conversation was inevitable.

the conversation  
mermaid (her voice is a hiss. her anger sends waves crashing onto the beach)
you bitch. you did it again! how could you?

huntress (unflinching)
it needed doing.

mermaid
damn you, i love him. why are you always so harsh and unforgiving?

huntress (forceful, but without malice)
i loved him, too. but he was taking up too much space and time. that wasn't part of the bargain.

mermaid (her eyes well with tears)
b-but...what will i do out here all alone?

huntress
live. what else? when's the last time you swam out to the deepest parts of the sea, hm? you don't even wear your jewels anymore for fear of attracting someone else, while he's off entertaining his own thoughts. you have forgotten yourself.

mermaid (calmer, straightening her spine)
no. he needed me. i have been true to him, that's all. i did what he asked and took care of him.

huntress (barely stifling a haughty laugh)
you did. and where has he been?

mermaid
busy, i suppose.

huntress
then you should busy yourself. it is time to move on. i have paths to forge, things to build. i would love to fight and win pretty things for you, sister, but you no longer call for them. you've asked me to sit on this shore and wait--

mermaid (a sad voice laced with anger)
i hoped things would get better. he always said they would, and i know he wouldn't lie to me.

huntress
no one said he lied.

mermaid (sighing)
yes...

huntress
the results are what matter.

mermaid
it's still sad...

huntress
of course. i am sorry for your loss, but i'm still not certain you realize all you've lost in your loving and waiting. i wish i could cry your tears, but i swore to protect you, so i had to run him off.

mermaid
i appreciate your concern. i just wish things could have been different.

huntress (visibly softening for the first time)
you know i do, too. but we are both meant for great things. love will come again.

mermaid
hm...i have missed my jewels. a long swim might be helpful...

huntress
don't get distracted on the way.

mermaid (with a sad smile)
no...i'm finished with love for awhile. i haven't forgotten that we're the same; twins forced apart by my forgetfulness. there has to be a way for us to come together again.

huntress
definitely. next time we meet, we'll reunite and celebrate.

the mermaid swims away, slowly at first, then gathering energy and joy as she goes. the huntress walks off to begin her work.

~fin~

the work continues...

did a little more with the project today...

it's tiring. i got through the first journal in one sitting. only made it about halfway this time.

this one recounts some of the worst stuff: start of therapy, budding sexuality, high school boyfriend uncertainty, pain processing and healing...

one interesting, reemerging theme: the nagging feeling that the proverbial "something" is inside me just dying to get out.

maybe in the course of this work, i'll be able to finally name that "something".

encounter

hello again...

i saw you today,
but you didn't see me.

it's just as well...

knowing this is an affair of the aura
doesn't ease the ache in my chest
or kill the inclination to bury my face in your neck
and go wherever you're going.

to some part of me,
you are walking honey,
a living offering;

i want you
for my altar
to keep the spirits close.

...your smile can do that, you know.

but that wouldn't be fair,
would it?

writing.

bag lady

this one woke me up this morning...

there are far too many homeless people in this country, period. but the numbers in the nation's capital are simply ridiculous.

and many of them look like me.

two for one

been busy this morning...

retrograde blues

dreaming of isis

ok. i'm going back to bed. i wanna have some energy for the
tattoo convention! i'll be on the hunt for some cool t-shirts and such.

i keep telling myself i will NOT leave there with any new ink...

...in remembrance of me

i'm over here today.

today...

i am at home.
my home.
with my chosen scents and colors, my books and my familiar.

enjoying my kitchen.
eating my food.
savoring my appetite.

i have had the day to myself.
i have slept, awakened, bathed, and prayed in ways pleasing to myself.

i am full of myself
and life
and love.

and i am happy.

note from a formerly fractured woman

(inspired by this entry over at incredible juju)

i understand why i make you uncomfortable.

the women you are used to seeing are not fully themselves.

they have forgotten how to read the face of the moon, let alone howl at it.

their magic is locked up tight in their ignored wombs,
in soccer practice,
in music lessons,
and heat-and-serve meals.

the women you are used to only feel vague stirrings of their wild witchiness.

(the goddess can be hard to hear over cnn and oprah's guru of the moment)

the power of their dreams has been eclipsed by reason.

but i am one of the old ones returned.
born knowing better,
seeing more,
holding the keys.

i, too, had to live in this world
and suffered some amnesia.

but you cannot fool me any longer,
nor harm me.

i will love you from afar if necessary,
but i will not suffer a fool.

you are more than the world has offered you.
warrior, protector, provider...yes.
but also
the action of our inspiration.
support system.
strategist.

go and do your work.

then join me.

(c) l.a.m. 2008

steppin to the mic

thinking about this entry again...

i went to an open mic last night at the urging of a couple of talented brothas, and i had a nice time. lots of very talented folks came through and performed.

i also realized that i have no desire to go back to that scene--at least not as a participant.

i'm not saying i'll never write a poem again--i just wrote one the other day--and i'd most certainly go to poetry/spoken word events ("i need to get out more" is a vast understatement). but i don't have any need to share my own musings beyond these online spaces.

the selective stage fright has dissipated. the idea of reading doesn't fill me with dread, but there's also no burning need to speak my peace.

time and space, apparently, have neutralized me.

i'm always going to write because, well, it's what i do. but perform? probably not.

for now, i'll keep (most of) my notebooks, but there will be a massive digital purge. it's all just dead creative weight at this point; fragments that have been lying around for so many years, there's no way to know how to reassemble them.

some things i've "thought" of, i've seen written since. it was my personal proof of the theory that ideas are literally floating through the air, and you and 500 other folks might discover a concept at the same time, but only one or two will actually flesh it out in a way that exposes it to the wider world. the other 498-499 will simply think you a genius when you do.

i've probably lost more half novels and semi second drafted stories than i've ever written--either to outdated technology, the death of my laptop, lost disks, torn up notebooks, etc. and so on--hence the paragraph under this blog's title.

and i'm not sad about it.

i don't know if it's because i'm still finding my voice, or that i'm just not meant to write the next great (american?) novel.

but i'm coming to think of writing as not my calling, but simply a vessel of expression i excel at.

perhaps i will write a book or a blog about my calling that will pull it all together...

but, i'm not a slam poet.
or a mc.
i'm probably not even a novelist or story writer, despite my bits of training.

just a girl who plays with words now and then.

use your words

...that's the message i'm working with right now.

so i need to write. often. i need to finish one of these half-assed projects that's been rolling around in my head for the past few years.

i suppose that's all well and good. at least it would be if i weren't so...

frustrated
overstimulated
fiercely impatient
overfed
insatiable
tired
cranky
temperamental
dissatisfied
hot (as in warm. literally.)

...aching like a starving goddess with no living medium to remember her name.

it's probably underutilized and stagnant creative energy bubbling up to the surface.

i'd like it to shut up and go away. or at least simmer down.

but i suppose i'll have to bear with the discomfort until i determine how i'm going to use it...

implacable

i am dantor dissatisfied.

dolorosa encased in tempered glass;
heart pierced and bleeding
despite her riches.

i hear gold is a wonderful conductor,
but i am not interested in intermediaries.

neither blood nor passion
run through my precious metals;
they can only be traded for more paper
to trade again...

je rouge,
kali;
focused rage,
bloodied femininity.

rum and perfume
my sword and shield;
i'll gladly run you through
laughing all the way.

who is brave enough
to construct my altar?

a mad, mad, mad world

there are things i'd like to write about that are better kept quiet until i'm sure of the outcome.

other things i can feel, but have few or no words to express.

i'll try to touch on what i can, 'cause i have to get something out...

i feel another project coming on--that, or something calling out to be finished. i had a promising story/novel come to me a few years ago that i haven't been able to develop into any kind of coherent whole. it pokes me every now and then, i scribble whatever comes, then i leave it until the next time. not exactly a winning strategy.

the love project is...stalled. that was easier to work from a place of angst and a need to organize unrequited emotion. but, as he's wont to do, the subject of the piece has reared his head. now there's a new set of sentiments to deal with.

i recently began to reread ...said the shotgun to the head. i may have mentioned before that i enjoy saul williams because he's the only male poet i've read (to date) who seems to be trying to understand the divine feminine on a deep level. he also seems like the kind of man i'd probably fall head over heels for, but that's beside the point.

something in his words hits me on levels i didn't know anyone knew i had. he has a way of stirring the parts of me i've attempted to subdue in the name of normalcy. i realize that that is probably due more to his mediumship than the beauty of his poetry. i sense that he is often a vessel, same as i am.

i'd like to ask him how he learned to surrender...

there's also a lingering sense of need for...a spark. some sense of purpose, a goal, something. it seems that whenever i gain a new understanding or realization it just leaves me lusting after something else.

and now, instead of the depression it caused a few weeks ago, it's starting to feel like an itch. irritating and almost intangible. there's also a sprinkling of rage i like to call hungry baby syndrome, i.e., you scream until you're fed.

welcome to my mess.

y'all mind the retrograde, now.

starve your art to feed your face

i feel you, girl...

i have lost no less than 4-5 essays/poems in the last couple of days.

this time of year sends me into monk mode. prayer, dreaming, communing, writing. those are pretty high on my list right now.

fielding emails, ordering supplies, and catering to whims is not.

my best stuff comes from wide, open spaces. half trance and total absorption.

i've learned how to steal time. blogging at my desk when something strikes me, scribbling in a notebook while waiting for the shuttle, etc.

i'm still re-learning flow, trying to honor my commitment to eliminate self-censorship.

freewrite to cut the fat.
prose journaling for emotions or to chronicle life.
pure emotion manifests as poetry.
post-meditation epiphanies.

one day we'll have the time and space to give these worlds and words the shape and form they deserve.

til then, back to the grind...

amen, brotha. amen.

That's Not In My Job Description
by Paul Beatty

despite that i overslept
and set a guinness book world record for coming in late
its still time for me to take my 15 minute break

pull off my sweater vest
talking shit

cross my sneakers on the desk
threaten to call my union rep
if these fools

dont stop lookin at me crazy
whisperin lazy
under their breath

but during my siesta
i eavesdrop on societys best

imagine im a distinguished ethnographer

on the black pbs
talkin with a british lisp
in front of a bookshelf

welcome to alistair cooke's In Search of
today we pursue The Elusive True Nature of Whitey

notice as
our cameras
zoom in on

a pinstriped pack of business school well groomed brooks brother
smoothies
encamped around a water cooler jostling for room in their natural
habitat
wiping dunkin donut crumbs off their jackets and engaged in debates
on hot topics
such as:

nuclear waste the china syndrome
alternative methods of heating their homes

and right before

the herd starts to roam

the menfolk take part in the ritual
shooting of the styrofoam cups into the trash basket

and if they make it
they dance around like
they just saved the world

headin my way
lookin for some dap

so i try to look busy
which im good at

start rustlin charts
construct some new paper clip art
chew on a pen cap as if im seriously studying my messenger map

hmmmm did you know that main street runs perpendicular to beech
and parallel with elm for exactly 1 and seven/eighteenths of
a mile
before it intersects with west crest
well blow me down

i aint got time to mope
worryin aloud about
how imma cope wid radioactive isotopes and mushroom clouds

when its me myself

thats about to explode

an overloaded low level gung-ho ah-so nigro rickshaw coolie
the company dr. doolittles thought they knew me
i talk the animals como se llama push–me–pull–me

bowin n kowtowin
eatin crow
holdin my tongue
hands clung so tightly to the bottom rung
cant even reach for the glass ceiling

my feet planted in corporate dung
growing roots
in the ground zero
terra firma
of affirmative
daily inaction

copy xerox mop remember the blue ones go on top
shred fedex the checks press the red button next
fax wax collapse the green mail sacks go to jack

right after i put my year-end evaluation
in the management trainee mailbox

one of them fresh out of college cookie cutter fuckers
invites me to meet the buddies for drinks at mcgillicuddy's

i only wanted a nine to five
that classified didnt say nothin bout havin to socialize

now this wage slave
is t-minus nine heinekens from critical mass

me and a few hoogie white democrats
drinking after work rolling rocks
smoking marlboros out of the box

all you can do is wait for the chain reaction show of ass

when one of em
looks me in the eye
and decides
to say something to the colored guy

its
all systems go
the white folks start actin like they know

hey bro er uh bro-ham
i happen to be a big rap fan
went to see ice cube and michel'le
at the hollywood palladium
and i was the only white person in the place
aint i soul brother

there must have been another workshop on how to handle your
support staff
which in this craft is a euphemism for niggers n spics

itsa trip
watching a one-sided will to unite

if i could get in a word edgewise i wouldnt
since im with my boss
and dont want to get fired
all i can do is sigh
too chicken to pay the price

as they get excited
giddy from overexercising their rights

my dad owns a liquor store in the inner city so i know how you feel

ive read toni morrisons beloved twice
and even though i still didnt get it the second time shes just so real

i believe that spike is truly five for five
no no you dont understand i really want to be like mike

or maybe a harlem globetrotter
its my dream to send my daughter to spelman
where can she get a check up for sickle cell
whats the name of your hair gel/pomade
do you use a depilatory when you shave
how can i join the crips
just what is hip
i know its after the fact but i dont think king shouldve called for calm
i wanna be a minister in the nation of islam
isnt so and so such an uncle tom

when theyre through
they pat themselves on the back
and quote jesse jackson

we have to start on the front end of head start and day care
not on the back end of prison and welfare

keepin hope alive
i buy the next round

wonderin how it would sound if i changed my name to skip
placed a mike tyson kingsized if i ruled the world chip on my shoulder
went to a joint full of rednecks
put my elbows on the bar cleared my throat and said

becks
then id go into my show

did you know i was elected to the senate inna landslide
and i was the only colored man there without rag in my hand for
polishin brass or shining shoes

or

at last weeks tractor pull i was the only spear chukker
drivin monster pick-ups over a bunch of crushed oldsmobiles

or

i sailed in the americas cup

or

i went to the university of vermont and rowed crew

or

i grew up in a two room shack in the appalachian mountains picked
myself up
by the shitkickers went door to door selling berlitz and scripture
moved to
utah sang soprano in the mormon tabernacle choir married into the
osmonds
and now i spend my weekends smokin pot with donnie and marie
reading back
issues of teen beat magazine

or

im included in the canon
im a cardinal in the vatican
im the highest paid player on the boston red sox
i own IBM stock
i play nazi punk rock
i drink coors extra gold by the case
i can say puke with a straight face
i have a seat on wall street
im an LL bean catalogue model
my art is in the metropolitan
i had a major part in a woody allen movie
and i do the broadway casting for tommy tune

but i wouldn't give a shit about nuna dis
if i could just say im a nigger who has enough room

(from AGNI 37 & 56)

Paul Beatty was born in Los Angeles and now lives in New York. (1993)

why the new name, you ask?

ok.
so i made some sweet tea last night

and sitting here, writing poems and junk, trying to embrace an odd mood of combined
inspiration
boredom
prayer
stress (if i don't remind myself of the stress, i'll attempt to gloss over it)
and a particular sort of loneliness
i drank two glasses of it

and now i have a headache
'cause i used white sugar
(bein bad)
instead of the brown sugar and/or honey i've been using in my teas

*sheepish lil girl voice*
i just wanted it to taste like mommy's...

oooohhhh lordy no (c) olly

feelin like...

feelin like
brown sugar bubblin up into
sweet sticky caramel

full of
sweet things and
fire

illuminated
golden

me.