...so post poems you've written for poets
...post poems by your favorite poets
...post articles about poetry
...post ur favorite magazines for poets
...any helpful advice on filling out apps
...upcoming conferences
...scholarship/fellowship info
...new books by our favorite poets
...old books by favorite poets
...must haves
...new pens (im always on the hunt)
...new notebooks/journals/papers
...u got a chap book? give us a link & sell sum shit

aside: cute totebags w/ which to carry all this shit?
cuz poets need totebags.

i know delrica puts up the poetry lessons, but this is in addition to.

enjoy the thirty days
and write ur hearts out.

cuz my edit time expired, and im pissed

...advice on agents *of particular interest to me
...advice on editors

called "doo wop dream"
dedicated to gwendolyn brooks, june jordan, and toni cade bambara
....the story is too long to post really,



She tried hard not to, but she remembered. Those girls were bad. Anybody could tell you how bad they were and everybody did. There wasn’t a woman who could out dress them, a man who could out smart them. And they knew it too. 127th street waited for gwen, and june, and toni to get up each morning and get the block going. Women waited for the bus with them, children made it to school because of them, and dope fiends dreamed dreams of doo wop where the only jones was song, and so the girls sang all day and all night long just to calm the aching in their veins.

~
Lena was not a punk, she was a just funny looking girl. Her hair was unusually long for such a dark child and her eyes told of something other than blk mixed in her blood. She was not fat or thin, short or tall. She just seemed to be there, on the corner listening to the doo wop sisters do their thang. Those girls were bad, and Lena wanted to be bad too. She wanted to be a doo wop sister, with no mother and no father, just a voice and a reason and stories to tell. She wanted to sing from her window, and the stoop, and the corner, and into the ear of a man with lots of promises and nice teeth and a big car and shiny shoes. She wanted to sing the song of Harlem, she wanted a big butt and thighs that curved and moved and glowed and kept the attention of her people. She wanted to be a doo wop sister, and boogie down streets that offered everything one could never use.

~

“How long you been writing?,” questioned Gwen. “Long enough,” sang the funny looking little girl. “Well I think you got something here sweeter than cornbread and better than hot sauce little mama,” said June. “Only thing is, if you don’t never talk to nobody, wont nobody never hear you,” commented Toni. The girl shifted her weight to the other side of the body, uncomfortable that all of the girls were looking at her at once. “We’ll sing em, as long as you keep writing them like this,” Gwen offered from over the girl’s head, “The minute you start talking all that jive shit that don’t mean shit, we gonna stop singing.” Claudia knew the girls to be gospel, and so she kept writing her Harlem poems, and the doo wop sisters kept singing Harlem’s songs.

~

was it really time for u to go?
time to lay down for a poet’s death,
time for words to resurrect and souls to write no more?
was it really time for u to go,
when so many seeds have not yet been turned over
and the ground is too cold to dig?
when summer yields winter winds & I fall in love
all the time so much I cant find myself and I don’t recognize myself,
was it really time for u to go?
how many search to find nothing
when the answers were written in ur faces
& now ure buried & gone
and the truth is no longer here to look at.
if u wldve stayed we cldve played numbers
and practiced dance steps, if u wldve stayed we cldve
grew up and been harlem & indiana & charleston & upstate.
we clda humped in the back seats & got perms & summer jobs
& fresh kicks and enemies to laff at. if u wldve stayed I wldnt be so lonely
& we cldve eaten sugar daddies & bbq chips & picked fites
we cldve wrote together about all the fked up ppl
and all the fked up shit and the sky and the babies
and the puerto ricans and the skewl system and dead poets and
dead bodies and where we grew up and our daddies
& the system
& the condition
& the prisons
& the hate
& the prejudice
& jazz & rock
and new skewl & old skewl
and God
and dee jays and proms
and lipstick
and subways
and being blk
if u wldve stayed we clda wrote poems about
being blk
and God
and love
and fking
and God
just all the time.
we clda been all the time.
on time.
fly ass bitches
just blk
and God
and love
and us.

SOME BOOKS

Ted Berrigan - The Sonnets
Etheridge Knight - The Essential Etheridge Knight
Harryette Mullen - Muse & Drudge
Bill Knott - Poems 1963-1988
Jay Wright - Transfigurations
June Jordan - Kissing God Goodbye
Nathaniel Mackey - Eroding Witness
Diane di Prima - Pieces of a Song
Yusef Komunyakaa - Pleasure Dome (Pauz)

SOME LINKS

http://www.thepoetryforum.org/poets.html
http://wwww.laurable.com/audio.html
http://www.archive.org/audio/collection.php?collection=naropa
http://wsui.uiowa.edu/prairie_lights.htm
http://www.writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/

LYRICAL CHANGE

Sorry you had a go & shattered windows
for how words teased suds out yr heart
in phrase the favored corkscrew Sorry
the sweet lemons went sour after all
that work & turned yellow again
These things tender ladders & illusions reasons
we never talk anymore & were never quite friends
just reckless ends of duct taped fairy wings.
So here’s a nickel for yr travels, little gauze
for chafe knees & flavored balms
to lick off some relief from heavy boredoms But
as quiet nights twist between yr fingers
you might mistake my token for the moon
& grab a spoon to lift the barefoot boy you see

fishing in yr palm for stars

"ishmael reed" written may/01
one of my favorites b/c he's one of my favorites

ishmael reed u look like rev sittin there like that on those
porch steps. just as very beautiful as very blk men can
be so sumtimes ur eyes tell me stories ive heard before, but
just recently remembered, i cant believe how very much you
favour my granddaddy to me, maybe its b/c u both have those
lips that thicken as soon as ur ready to touch em, & i wld allow
u to write me & erase me & pencil me in ur schedule when
u have time to fit me in ur quotations, amongst ur pauses, when
u rest & i offer u that drink of water w/ a grin & a little
perspiration

between these breasts, wipin ur brow w/ my apron brushin against ur
nappy nappy hairline grey silver grass hedges neva trimmed u look
like rev finishin off that last glass ur beautiful when ur
solemn, silent, solid, i wont even patronize u by callin u a king
or a god or a saint, but instead sir since blk men dont hear that
too much sir mister man blk ishmael, ur fingers prolly feel like embers
in the winter, since spring, summer, and fall are so much of the same
thing.
i wunda if eva we made love wld ur wurds peel themselves frum their
pages,

slowly becoming visible on my skin seeing, shouting, screaming
so loud, so loud, so loud, the wurld wld know we versed.

paperdollpoet posed it... im just copying and pasting in case anyone has sum info

how much do you charge to be a featured poet? does it depend on the venue? do you include travel in your cost? do you depend moreso on selling your books to audience members rather than getting paid a certain percentage from the door?

what if the gig is outside of your city? do you expect the oragnizers to find your lodging?

*exhales*

seasonal love and blurbs about absolutely nothing...

i never wanted to love you,
but God showed me
something in you
that poked at my heart
and tried to determine
whether or not
it really wanted to be tested.
i didn't know the moon
would set off such
a glare in the corner
of those browns, but
i stared, waiting to see
if it would move. you smiled,
and for one moment, we were
connected. i try to forget.
but, something in me cannot
let go. your voice. your smile.
the way you say, "hey you"
got me wishing i could travel
back in time and do
what i wanted to then, now.
but, i'm a coward. and you
never really wanted love,
just my time. my touch. my---
presence.
i run away from the simplest
things, the psychologist
in me struggles to make
them difficult just so
i can analyze the situation
and brag about how i solved
it knowing damn well it
didn't need a resolution in the
first place.

spontaneity is your niche'.
we clash each time i envision
us in my dreams, cuz i wanna
organize and plan, and you
just wanna hop in the car
and go. "women ain't sposed
to feel "that" way about pussy,"
i can hear my father
in his younger days screaming this
to me, but i ignore him.
cuz it's uncontrollable.
with each passing season,
i'll remember you and
how i shoulda/woulda/coulda
did things differently.
where would it have
led us? could we have been
happily ever after?
lovers waiting for the
rite time to love?
or just two people
looking for love on
cloud 9, hoping for
the next round of life
to pass us by?
i should have never
looked into your eyes,
cuz now my mind
cannot erase you
and make room for spring.

©Tremaine L. Loadholt

http://msmind.blogspot.com
http://sadlymstaken.blogspot.com
http://www.sheflypaper.com/honeychile.html
http://www.myspace.com/treEmainE

http://www.sheflypaper.com

I've been looking for you,
haven't you heard? ©Patrice Rushen

by Tim Seibles



Say, good lookin, what brings you thisaway
amongst the fanged and the fluffy?
Grandma, huh?
Some ol bag too lazy to pick up a pot, too feeble
to flip a flapjack--
and you all dolled up like a fire engine
to cruise these woods?

This was your mother's idea?
She been livin in a CrackerJack box or somethin?
This is a tough neighborhood, mutton chops--
you gotchur badgers, your wild boar, your
hardcore grizzlies.... and lately,
this one wolf's been actin pretty big and bad.

I mean, what's up, doc?
Didn anybody ever tell you it ain't smart
to stick out in wild places?
Friendly? You want friendly you better
try Detroit. I mean
you're safe wit me, sweetcakes,
but I ain't a meat-eater.

You heard about Goldie Locks, didn'cha? Well,
didn'cha? Yeah, well, little Miss Sunshine--
little Miss I'm-so-much-cuter-than-thee--
got caught on one of her sneaky porridge runs
and the Three Bears weren't in the mood:
so last week the game warden nabs baby bear
passin out her fingers to his pals.

That's right. Maybe your motha should
turn off her soaps, take a peek at a newspaper,
turn on some cartoons, for Pete's sake:
this woyld is about teeth, bubble buns--who's bitin
and who's gettin bit. The noyve a'that broad
sendin you out here lookin like a ripe tomata.
Why don't she just hang a sign aroun your neck:
"Get over here and bite my legs off!
Cover me wit mustid--... call me a hotdawg!"

Alright, alright, I'll stop.
Listen, Red, I'd hate for something unpleasant
to find you out here all alone.
Grandma-shmandma-- let'er call Domino's.
They're paid to deliver. Besides, toots,
it's already later than you think--
get a load a'that chubby moon up there.

Ya can't count on Casper tanight either.
They ran that potata-head outta town two months ago--
tryin ta make friends all the time--
he makes you sick after awhile.

Look, Cinderella, I got some candles and some
cold uncola back at my place-- whaddaya say?

Got any artichokies in that basket?

from my blog:

ntozake shange said:

“Where there is a woman there is magic. If there is a moon falling from her mouth, she is a woman who knows her magic, who can share or not share her powers. A woman with a moon falling from her mouth, roses between her legs and tiaras of Spanish moss, this woman is a consort of spirits.”

&

"you take my tongue outta my mouth/
make me say foolish things
you take my tongue outta my mouth/ lay it on yr skin
like the dew between my legs
on this the first day of silver balloons
& lil girl's braids undone
friendly savage skulls on bikes/ wish me good-day
you speak spanish like a german & ask puerto rican
market men on lexington if they are foreigners

oh you are sucha fool/ i cant help but love you
maybe it was something in the air
our memories
our first walk
our first...
yes/ alla that."

ntozake shange. this woman was my lyrical god. i was 13 or 14 the first time i opened up one of her books.

i had just spent a good amount of time trying to "fall asleep forever" in my room. i was a depressed, alone, and misunderstood teenager. our family was never in one place for more than 2 years, my mother was never at home and i had a 15 year old boyfriend who liked to spend his time being physically & emotionally abusive.

& then, one day, a beautiful gift decended from the heavens of a friends heart... a play called "for colored gurls who have considered suicide when the rainbow was enuf" those small letters in that small book gave me one million reasons to live. i found so much strength in this black woman who said what was on her mind any damn way she pleased & laughed at death like he was sum old white slave owner trying to take her will to live away. she gave me a whip that i could hold in my back pocket anytime i felt small. i spent a lot of my freshman year alone, wondering the halls of 3 different high schools searching for a friendly face or vacant place at a lunch table.... but with zake, i always had a friend. i knew sum blk gurl out there understood what it meant to be me... to be ugly, passionate, divine, rude, nurturing and dangerous. i worshiped this woman... she was my hero(ine).

& time passed. & eventually i stopped writing like her & started writing like me. & after i had digested everyone of her novels, plays, poems, & cookbooks i decided i needed to walk away & learn to stand on my own. & i began to call myself writer & believe it & i stopped looking to her for food & began to find ispiration in everything, including myself.

so, i was ecstatic when i heard she was coming to LA. i had never seen her live, never met her in person... it was like a childhood dream coming true. the musicians she played with ( Kahil El'Zabar, Billy Bang, Fareed Haque) were brilliant & blew my mind WAY open. & they introduced zake & she was still sexy with a cane and still lively with 57 flashing in her eyes. she read her poems with passion & honesty & we all felt blessed to witness...but all of a sudden, in the middle of the concert, i realized how small she was. i had made her into a SUN, a MOON, a WILD WIND & seeing her live made me realize how human she was. i dont know if it is the time that has passed but while she was reading, her words didnt mean as much to me as they use to. they didnt sparkle or dance or leave kisses on the inside of my cheeks. i didnt want to spend weeks chewing on the flavor of one paragraph or tatoo the beauty of one line on my forearm. they just were words. beautiful. honest. & hers. but nevertheless, they were words...

i realized that after much time & circumstance, i have now become my own hero, my own god. zake no longer owns me. alice dont own me. marley dont own me. coltrane dont own me. malcolm dont own me. ella dont own me. assata dont own me. i am carving out this path of life & art on my own, with my perfect set of flawed brown hands & it feels good. i respect her & i am grateful for the years she held my hand, whispered in my ear & told me it was ok to spread my legs if i wanted to (as long as i was laughing while i did it)

i walk alone, eat alone, sleep alone & hear my own words in my own head. i have sumthing to say, sumthing as important & relevant as any one of my old heroes & that feels so good. that feels real fucking good.

_____________________
http://www.myspace.com/nonifashoni

i wasn't going to do that this year.

any and everything
....ima come back w/ tribute i did for him

*this is part one of a two part poem*

Walking w/ leroi

i wanted to write u a love letter and tell u how i admired u & thought u was the shit & i had never seen the word "fuck" on a piece of paper until i read u b/c i was under the impression that it wasn’t okay to curse in poetry. i wanted to write u a love letter to tell you how much u mean to me and ur words and what they did. i got my pen out and was all ready to start my letter about the first time i read your poem with the lemons and the police and the nickels and broken hearts and wrestling, & that i slept with that poem and read it every morning in my bathroom mirror that i screamed it out loud and turned it into song and just when i was ready to make love
to each and every word
just when i was ready to open up
and arch myself under your weight
just when i was ready to feel dark and damp with you
you ended the poem
and killed the affair.

Black Dada Nihilismus is that shit

see? some of the bluegrass is black.

http://www.mwg.org/production/documentary/voices/poets/

http://www.pw.org/

everyone shld have a subscription
they also have a free e-newsletter


wealth of information here...

Friday, November 26, 2004

title: did i say too much?

i have had to send out over 20 copies of myself...

& with every post office visit, i hesitate.

did i reveal too much? did i keep anything sacred? secret? safe? locked away?

who are these people who want to own a piece of me?
a portion of my past?
a slice of my life?

and will they use this book against me one day?

will i notice different questions in their eyes when we speak not so easy again?

did you really do that?
did you really try?
did that really happen to you?
are you really that weak? sad? sexually active? flawed? broken? fucked up?

you know, my mom asked me for a copy. and as soon as the request left her lips...pictures of her face in horror came to mind. how would she react seeing when i really lost my virginity? what i really thought of her growing up? how i usta let no count hoodlums sneak into my girlhood and challenge her god's existence on clouds of funk and weed.

and my husband wants to read it, but how do i explain to him that sometimes i fall in fake love with fake people just to pass the time during the day when he's not home? sometimes i make love to memories, not literally. but in my writing, how can you tell the difference? how can i explain to him that i am just letting go of my past.

i let her read it..and i watched her face scan the page with her name on it...and i saw her heart shake thru her teeshirt. she tried to make it seem like she was just skimming the book..but she lingered too long on one page. and something that resembled tears made shadows in her eyes, which created an even greater reflection for the book to mirror off of...

i didn't think.

i just copy and pasted puzzle like pieces from different times in my life onto the empty spaces i reserved for this book.

i hesitate every time.

i clutch the envelopes tighter.

i sigh heavier.

i pray to no face gods as i slide the ugliest parts of my life across the counter to the woman on the other side. she weighs the package and i always think my issues weigh more than they do..but 1.14 oz is all it amounts to...

"do you want confirmation on this package ma'am?"

can that piece of paper confirm that my words will reach the right ears? thats what i want to ask..

but instead, i just nod in agreement.

& hope i know what i'm doing.


---
www.sheflypaper.com

u r beautifuLL

***********************************
"one, two, three, four, FIFTH!" -Dave Chappelle

"i pity the fool." -Mr. T

--

in my bag
lovely kenneth cole bag it is
goin completely to waste
i'm a start carryin that bitch
put my spare pair of shoes in it & a coupla tea bags

who knows how much i love tumi(2me)
seein as tho i have two luggage pieces
and am currently building up my set
(i have the complete swiss army series in RED of course)
but...there is nothing like tumi
not even my piece of briggs & riley can fuck w/ it

...ive been a collector of luggage
seein as tho i like to trip

my *newest* bag:

http://www.tumi.com/products/index.cfm?ModelID=14339&bb_id=c14615&sub_site_id=4&TMI_PL_4_Link=Details&categoryid=14615

until u
i saw a set in brown???
ISAYMISSISSIPPIHOTDAMN

ive had this bag....hmmm maybe two 1/2 yrs now....
old faithful she is
i have the matching keycase & eyeglass holder
the cabriolet collection has since been discontinued,
but this bag is so worthy of production
which is why it still exists

the leather browns very nicely w/ time
cant see any scratches or anything
reminds me of the old coach
before they went fabric & cloth lined
ewwwwwwwwwww

http://store.dooney.com/OA_HTML/ibeCCtpSctDspRte.jsp?section=10116

im tellin u...i wish i has bought the business bag when i had the chance *shit

if u can...pretty pls git urself one & fill it w/ words old & new

i took a workshop there 2 or 3 summers ago...i cant remember
short story w/ sheree thomas
great experience for anyone who has the oppty.
affordable also.... good if ure taking a semester off
or outta school but still want feedback
workshop environment


http://www.fdcac.org

With over a dozen Writing Workshops for beginning, intermediate and advanced students, FDCAC enrolls hundreds of adult students a year. Poetry, short story, novel, screen writing and freelance writing (for magazines and newspapers) are just some of the workshops offered.

For more than a quarter of a century, the Center has launched the careers of many writers whose work have been published by Doubleday, Random House, Harper & Row, E. P. Dutton, Pantheon, Dial, and Harlem River Press, and started a number of young writers for stage, screen and television on their way.

haruko/love poems june jordan
the collected poems of gwendolyn brooks
the collected poems of langston hughes
wounded in the house of a friend sonia sanchez

aside: im no big sonia fan, but this collection i bought just b/c of the title story. it's a mix of of stories and poems

loose woman sandra cisneros
ariel sylvia plath
the winged seed li young lee
black maria kevin young
american dreams sapphire
ego tripping nikki giovanni

again, im no big nikki fan, but these poems i love

black gwendolyn brooks
macnolia a.van jordan
blessing the boats lucille clifton
how i got ovah carolyn rodgers

Poem on the Death of Princess Diana

at least she was riding
beside
somebody going somewhere
fast
about love

©june jordan

thanks sparrow... if i had not read this on your site, i would not have fallen in love with it... so now, i'm off to do more research on june jordan...

ha~

--------------
http://msmind.blogspot.com
www.sheflypaper.com/honeychile.html
www.myspace.com/treEmainE

I'll do anything
to get your attention. ©Van Hunt

www.sheflypaper.com
www.thejawn.com

i slowly realize that your poem was showing me, me.





***********************************
"one, two, three, four, FIFTH!" -Dave Chappelle

"i pity the fool." -Mr. T

--

POST#1 (shivering) I have been reading for years, but I juat decided to join. YOu guys are serious....
Child Of The Ghetto

Thanks to my 'hood for showing me the way

I’m a child of the ghetto
that same ghetto where screen doors swung
and derelicts hung out looking for beef to get in
just for fun/ that same ghetto where jump ropes
and broken glass occupied the same space and
gunshots and birthday parties were found in the same place
where being a snitch could get you hit and being a punk
was forbidden and knowing that when you left your house
a possible fight was a given/ that same ghetto where sprinklers
served as summer vacations getaways and sandboxes were the beach
where teaching yourself how to write grafitti without getting caught
was essential/ the same ghetto where many a playground baller had
potential to make it to the league but the league of extraordinary
criminals was more appealing/ where dealing drugs and shoulder shrugs
reigned prominent whenever adults mentioned using condoms and
common sense to plan your life/ Yes, I’m from that same ghetto where
when you drove through you might get your car hit with a rock or two
the same ghetto you see that old lady walking and you wonder who she
was talking to/ that same place where football games against other projects
turned out to be bigger than superbowls just no half time shows
the ghetto where the crazy man drank from the dumpster and ate leftovers
from the one fast food spot near the hood/ where it was all good to rock
your brothers jeans as long as they were clean/ where old head cats leaned
in Caddy’s and we didn’t have baby daddy’s, we had niggaz with kids
yes, I’m a child of the ghetto! where having a dream meant you were a nerd
where if you pronounced your words properly you get shit thrown at your
property and niggaz clowned you for studying/ where local knuckleheads
would buddy up to fuck with you because you gave a damn about school
where it was not cool to say “I’m going to Georgia Tech” where respect was
more valuable than knowledge “fuck college, I’m tryin’ to get this money
nigga!….fuck what you heard” “woooord…these niggaz lookin’ good wit
these cars and hoes!” now they go from being on ice at the morgue to 6 foot
holes covered with flowers because they were thinking in terms of hours instead
of days, days instead of years, years instead of centuries/ eventually I got fed up
YES ME! that same child of the ghetto that thought me being smart and realizing
my art would get me hurt, now all the cats I came up with, with the exception of
about 4 are dead or don’t even work…THAT DAMN GHETTO where everything
good had to be bad and shit that I didn’t have had to wait and the niggaz who moved
weight had the best Christmas’ ever/ I’m talking leathers and Tims, Jettas with rims
shit, I rode my bike when I was 16! these dudes seemed to have all the answers
but what happens when you find out your grandmother got cancer and you can’t help
her because she won’t take drug money…..so yes, I’m a child of that same ghetto
and if making something of myself made me soft, then fuck it I’ll be that……
A MAN FROM THE GHETTO


by EESE01


Speaking is a right, but only when heard...

lurkers creep me out
ur words are encouraged

Eclipse (when u and i verse)

when u and i verse
we are broken pencils
and black pens with no ink
writing words that describe
feelings unknown and searching
for lost treasures
hidden deep within our minds

when u and i verse
we throw stones, place blame,
and shrug shoulders wondering
if infinity does exist
and paint colors on
canvases that dictate our moods,
bow heads in shame and move
from 1 destination to the next

when u and i verse
we call sunlight and rain
to our aid
dance in moonlit rays that
shelter us from harm and
wander about looking for
safety when none is left
to be found, we take things
back then wonder why we did them
finding ways to express feelings
that could never be understood

when u and i verse
we are metaphors within
poems that shed new light
on surfaces too deep to ignore
and voice opinions that shouldn’t
be uttered in the first place,
we live in glass houses and peek
out off brass windows staring into
streets of gold hoping one day
to become rich with knowledge.

Copyright © 2002 Tremaine L. Loadholt. All Rights Reserved


--------------
http://msmind.blogspot.com
http://sadlymstaken.blogspot.com
www.myspace.com/treEmainE

I'll do anything
to get your attention. ©Van Hunt

www.sheflypaper.com
www.sheflypaper.com/honeychile.html
www.thejawn.com

Snow angel for tahj

I’d lay deep in the snow
And spread my arms and legs wide
To share myself
With Nature’s gift so,
That you could drown in
My presence, and leave
All of your troubles there.

Copyright © 2002 Tremaine L. Loadholt. All Rights Reserved

--------------
http://msmind.blogspot.com
http://sadlymstaken.blogspot.com
www.myspace.com/treEmainE

I'll do anything
to get your attention. ©Van Hunt

www.sheflypaper.com
www.sheflypaper.com/honeychile.html
www.thejawn.com

dunno how i half stepped there.....she is serious. i can't recommend just any ONE thing. she is SO worthy of our time and attention.

yeah, just buy her collected works...dope, indeed

My black face fades,

hiding inside the black granite.

I said I wouldn't,

dammit: No tears.

I'm stone. I'm flesh.

My clouded reflection eyes me

like a bird of prey, the profile of night

slanted against morning. I turn

this way—the stone lets me go.

I turn that way—I'm inside

the Vietnam Veterans Memorial

again, depending on the light

to make a difference.

go down the 58,022 names,

half-expecting to find

my own in letters like smoke.

I touch the name Andrew Johnson;

I see the booby trap's white flash.

Names shimmer on a woman's blouse

but when she walks away

the names stay on the wall.

Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's

wings cutting across my stare.

The sky. A plane in the sky.

A white vet's image floats

closer to me, then his pale eyes

look through mine. I'm a window.

He's lost his right arm

inside the stone. In the black mirror

a woman's trying to erase names:

No, she's brushing a boy's hair.


***********************************
"one, two, three, four, FIFTH!" -Dave Chappelle

"i pity the fool." -Mr. T

--

this article is sooooo good. check it!

http://www.findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qa3692/is_200503/ai_n11849443

Troupe, Quincy
An Interview by Jan Garden Castro

+

I
wrap
myself
around a
celestial
tree

and from there

I can see

Patterns
of
eternity
that stick with me and
make impact, so that
the struggle

has meaning

-gsquared


http://www.myspace.com/nonifashoni

*excited

yup it is

made me who i am
gave me my name
told me i cld; so i did.

so much respect.

I Said to Poetry

I said to Poetry:"I'm finished
with you."
Having to almost die
before some wierd light
comes creeping through
is no fun.
"No thank you, Creation,
no muse need apply.
Im out for good times--
at the very least,
some painless convention."

Poetry laid back
and played dead
until this morning.
I wasn't sad or anything,
only restless.

Poetry said: "You remember
the desert, and how glad you were
that you have an eye
to see it with? You remember
that, if ever so slightly?"
I said: "I didn't hear that.
Besides, it's five o'clock in the a.m.
I'm not getting up
in the dark
to talk to you."

Poetry said: "But think about the time
you saw the moon
over that small canyon
that you liked so much better
than the grand one--and how suprised you were
that the moonlight was green
and you still had
one good eye
to see it with

Think of that!"

"I'll join the church!" I said,
huffily, turning my face to the wall.
"I'll learn how to pray again!"

"Let me ask you," said Poetry.
"When you pray, what do you think
you'll see?"

Poetry had me.

"There's no paper
in this room," I said.
"And that new pen I bought
makes a funny noise."

"Bullshit," said Poetry.
"Bullshit," said I.


--------------
http://msmind.blogspot.com
http://sadlymstaken.blogspot.com
www.myspace.com/treEmainE

i just wish u happy
b/c im so tired of loving u sad ©rgv

www.sheflypaper.com
www.sheflypaper.com/honeychile.html
www.thejawn.com

"THE SAND IN MY HAND"

AS I STAND ON THE COAST, WITH SAND IN MY HAND/
I CAN SEE A VESSEL COME NEAR/
I ECHO NAG CHAMPA, TO MY BROTHERS TO COME HERE/
DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE/
SOME WONDER BUT NONE HAVE FEAR/
100 YARDS AWAY, I SEE A FACE THAT IS RARE/
ONE THAT IS PALE, BURNT RED FROM SUNRAYS/
SPLAAASH!!!/THE ANCHOR HIT'S THE SEA/
THIS IS NOT A MYSTERY, OR A TRAGEDY/
THEY RUSHED ME AND FAMILY FEELING ANGRY/
I'M THINKING TO MYSELF, WHY FEEL ANGER WHEN YOU CAME FOR ME/
ALARM SOUNDS, AS HANDS HIT THE BONGO/
TOLD WOMEN AND CHILDREN TO RUN DEEP INTO THE CONGO/
BECOME ONE WITH JUNGLE, INVISIBLE TO NAKED EYE/
AND IF THEY TAKE OUR LIVES, WE WILL BECOME ONE WITH THE SKY/
SHOTS RANG FROM MUSKETS, TERROR GREW IN THE AIR/
SPERES WE THREW, THROUGH THIN AIR/
THE SAND IN MY HAND, IS THE SAND OF AFRICAN/
MY ONLY PHYSICAL REMEMBRANCE I COULD EMBRACE/
FROM A RACE THAT WAS USED FOR EXPERIMENTAL TASTE/
TO HATE ONE ANOTHER WHO LOOK LIKE ONE ANOTHER/
THE SAND IN MY HAND/
IS ALL I HAVE FOR PEACE, AND CONFIDENCE/
TO HELP ME GET THROUGH SO MUCH NONSENSE/

Lyrics bring words to life
I enlighten crowds with mic's
my heart is damaged with abrasions, intaking nothing but strife
Follow me in search of a spiritual individual
most misguided, tempted with dividends and residuals
I try to shine with light of insight, knowledge you can't debate
you acknowledge you made a mistake, but when it's too late
I motivate stagnated ones with patterns of words chosen
to wake their mentality which appears to be frozen
Positive with a lot to give, past seemed to present all stress.
through God i'm tryin to bless before I have nothing left.
Learn to live right but only after hittin rock bottom
need to nurture kids now for as long as we got em
with a system composed of plans destructable by no man
time is shortened measured by the last grain of sand
sifting through an hour glass,
you and your time have passed, that same glass showed how long your whole career would last
I see the beauty in music so I never disrespect the talent that God gave
true creativity I still crave.
I'm bound to benefit you with the words that I give
you should always stay focused for as long as you live

Focus!

WOW!!! When I used to rhyme with my group The Product my name was Compleet. Nice name choice.

Speaking is a right, but only when heard...

that's cool, I think it sums up the description of a nice emcee.

just copped "black maria" by kevin young; might not graduate becausse of it - what a great distraction

instead i got my mom a gift...i've peeped the Black Maria joint though. Young is dope.

I prayed heaven today
would bring its hammer down on me
and pound you out of my head
I can't think with you in it

I dragged all that I owned
down a dirt road to find you
my shoes worn out and used
they can't take me much farther

something always takes the place
of missing pieces
you can take and put together even though
you know there's something missing

the sun burned a hole in my roof
I can't seem to fix it
I hope the rain doesn't come
and wash me down the gutter

she rides in a car like a queen on a card
and the guns of her mind aim a line
straight at mine to a heart that was broke
tried to feel but got choked in the smoke of
a desert
a beach with no leisure a night that's so blue
feed the aching in you and the background
birds take a flight from the earth
where the bonfire burns and the night
current turns on a lifeboat floating
down a river of sleep
I can't see her hollow eyes
I'm walkin along with my boots full of rocks
I can't believe these tears were mine
I'll give them to you to put away in a box

something always takes the place
of missing pieces
you can take and put together even though
you know there's something missing


***********************************
"one, two, three, four, FIFTH!" -Dave Chappelle

"i pity the fool." -Mr. T

--

I'm apart from you
It's a part of you i don't understand
Apart from what you tell me
Apart from the fact i didn't listen
To the part about us being just friends
Not when your parting your legs
Even though your still wearing your jeans
Apart from that
I don't know what part goes where
Because i'm partly responsible
For the part where this goes elsewhere.

as truth said... for colored girls
shld be read& loved

her collection nappy edges as well

here's a piece of hers:

you are sucha fool

you are sucha fool/ i haveta love you
you decide to give me a poem/ intent on it/ actually
you pull/ kiss me from 125th to 72nd street/ on
the east side/ no less
you are sucha fool/ you gonna give me/ the poet/
the poem

insistin on proletarian images/ we buy okra/
3 lbs for $1/ & a pair of 98 cent shoes
we kiss
we wrestle
you make sure at east 110 street/ we have cognac
no beer all day
you are sucha fool/ you fall over my day like
a wash of azure

you take my tongue outta my mouth/
make me say foolish things
you take my tongue outta my mouth/ lay it on yr skin
like the dew between my legs
on this the first day of silver balloons
& lil girl's braids undone
friendly savage skulls on bikes/ wish me good-day
you speak spanish like a german & ask puerto rican
market men on lexington if they are foreigners

oh you are sucha fool/ i cant help but love you
maybe it was something in the air
our memories
our first walk
our first...
yes/ alla that

where you poured wine down my throat in rooms
poets i dreamed abt seduced sound & made history/
you make me feel like a cheetah
a gazelle/ something fast & beautiful
you make me remember my animal sounds/
so while i am an antelope
ocelot & serpent speaking in tongues
my body loosens for/ you

you decide to give me the poem
you wet yr fingers/ lay it to my lips
that i might write some more abt you/
how you come into me
the way the blues jumps outta b.b.king/ how
david murray assaults a moon & takes her home/
like dyanne harvey invades the wind

oh you/ you are sucha fool/
you want me to write some more abt you
how you come into me like a rollercoaster in a
dip that swings
leaving me shattered/ glistening/ rich/ screeching
& fully clothed

you set me up to fall into yr dreams
like the sub-saharan animal i am/ in all this heat
wanting to be still
to be still with you
in the shadows
all those buildings
all those people/ celebrating/ sunlight & love/ you

you are sucha fool/ you spend all day piling up images
locations/ morsels of daydreams/ to give me a poem

just smile/ i'll get it

is the piece of hers that made me whole
cant find it online, but do, do read

It doezn't write anymore but I still keep it az a long time friend.