it's march!

it's lady history month!

to comemmorate (commemorate? commemmorratee?), i propose we all share some of the work we've done about women. anything abt women. what it's like to be one, remarkable ones we've known, ones we're madly in love with. historical ones we admire. or just some stories abt em. or some artwork of/by them. anything.

all things vagina here.

men encouraged to apply!

ill start w/ a piece that i have here w/ me at work.

____________________
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http://brokeymcpoverty.com
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http://aboutmygranny.tumblr.com
http://naturalhairproblems.com

christ woman

--prologue--

they were wrong.
christ was a woman
and her father was not a godly man.
------------------------------------------------------

she was cursed with chronic patience
and a quick smile
a professional sufferer
she bled silently
it was easier than waging a war or
blocking blows to her mouth or chest
and bruising her hands in battle

she'd need them to build
for her babies one day

she reached our early for someone to love
the scars left by the father
who fought her like she was a grown man
when she needed to know
how to become a woman
and when no one answered her
she tried to seduce death
lure him quick to her lips
but her little 6th grade hips
were not a bait rich enough
just yet

with her time here
she figured she'd do her best for her people
the ones who hated her
the ones she thought she loved
o benevolent christ woman
kicked the baby out of little ebony's
14-yr-old stomach when she asked her to
because they both knew what birthright awaited
if the baby was damned to live in their end of town
with neighbors and landlords like theirs
a euthanization
that didn’t color itself selfish
til the rooms she'd been painting and preparing
for her own someday-baby was robbed
drained of its pretty red walls
replaced with a shriveled raisin of a womb
now she bleeds every month
at the wrist
and beneath pretty rope burns
lacing her neck
and adopts grown ass little boys
who hate her but have neglected babies of their own
who need a lover and protector
a fighter and a friend
a sacrifice

she played house with such passion.
these makeshift demi-husbands
were her only playmates
they hated her
but reminded her of daddy
and of home

which is all she ever really wanted
anyway

a picket fence frame
to make her broken heart look like art
pretty walls to take away from
the decaying furniture and
rotting fruit in the fridge
a finished basement
to lock her ghosts in

but she just guessed
it wasn’t his will

and neither her happiness, apparently
but she smiled and bled
because it was easier than fighting
or praying to the bastards
who forsook her when all she did
was go about doing good

if they only knew love
for what it was
and not the self-serving prayer
they made it to be
then maybe she
could've learned to claim it
without the crown of thorns
they passed to her as roses.
--------------------------------------

--epilogue--

she's 22
and finally her cancer
has manifested in physical form

when she goes to heaven--
as all saints do--
who sill wear diamond studded hospital beds
in pendants dancing on chains of gold
in honor of her sacrifice?

--Tracy Lynne
christ woman

--prologue--

they were wrong.
christ was a woman
and her father was not a godly man.
------------------------------------------------------

she was cursed with chronic patience
and a quick smile
a professional sufferer
she bled silently
it was easier than waging a war or
blocking blows to her mouth or chest
and bruising her hands in battle

she'd need them to build
for her babies one day

she reached our early for someone to love
the scars left by the father
who fought her like she was a grown man
when she needed to know
how to become a woman
and when no one answered her
she tried to seduce death
lure him quick to her lips
but her little 6th grade hips
were not a bait rich enough
just yet

with her time here
she figured she'd do her best for her people
the ones who hated her
the ones she thought she loved
o benevolent christ woman
kicked the baby out of little ebony's
14-yr-old stomach when she asked her to
because they both knew what birthright awaited
if the baby was damned to live in their end of town
with neighbors and landlords like theirs
a euthanization
that didn’t color itself selfish
til the rooms she'd been painting and preparing
for her own someday-baby was robbed
drained of its pretty red walls
replaced with a shriveled raisin of a womb
now she bleeds every month
at the wrist
and beneath pretty rope burns
lacing her neck
and adopts grown ass little boys
who hate her but have neglected babies of their own
who need a lover and protector
a fighter and a friend
a sacrifice

she played house with such passion.
these makeshift demi-husbands
were her only playmates
they hated her
but reminded her of daddy
and of home

which is all she ever really wanted
anyway

a picket fence frame
to make her broken heart look like art
pretty walls to take away from
the decaying furniture and
rotting fruit in the fridge
a finished basement
to lock her ghosts in

but she just guessed
it wasn’t his will

and neither her happiness, apparently
but she smiled and bled
because it was easier than fighting
or praying to the bastards
who forsook her when all she did
was go about doing good

if they only knew love
for what it was
and not the self-serving prayer
they made it to be
then maybe she
could've learned to claim it
without the crown of thorns
they passed to her as roses.
--------------------------------------

--epilogue--

she's 22
and finally her cancer
has manifested in physical form

when she goes to heaven--
as all saints do--
who sill wear diamond studded hospital beds
in pendants dancing on chains of gold
in honor of her sacrifice?

____________________
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http://brokeymcpoverty.com
http://splackavelliecentral.wordpress.com
http://aboutmygranny.tumblr.com
http://naturalhairproblems.com

ive never read anything like this from u
this is tuff

o benevolent christ woman
kicked the baby out of little ebony's
14-yr-old stomach when she asked her to
because they both knew what birthright awaited
if the baby was damned to live in their end of town
with neighbors and landlords like theirs
a euthanization
that didn’t color itself selfish
til the rooms she'd been painting and preparing
for her own someday-baby was robbed
drained of its pretty red walls
replaced with a shriveled raisin of a womb
now she bleeds every month
at the wrist
and beneath pretty rope burns
lacing her neck
and adopts grown ass little boys
who hate her but have neglected babies of their own
who need a lover and protector
a fighter and a friend
a sacrifice

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

i was gonna do a 'post ur favorite women writers,' but this is even better.

let me rummage

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

kinda don't need a special month...

_

shakin your block with a 6 million dollar bop

_

www.davidevanmcdowell.com

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

One of the biggest lessons I've learned recently is that when you don't know what to do, you should do nothing until you figure out what to do because a lot of times you feel like you are pressed against the wall, and you've got to make a decision. You never have to do anything. Don't know what to do? Do nothing.


--Oprah Winfrey







================





On
the corner of hope
and nowhere

i stood. ©revion

I really don't think life is about the I-could-have-beens. Life is only about the I-tried-to-do. I don't mind the failure but I can't imagine that I'd forgive myself if I didn't try.

---Nikki Giovanni







================





On
the corner of hope
and nowhere

i stood. ©revion

Nikky Finney is one of the only women in the Kentucky-based writing collective 'the affrilacian poets.' her work is absolutely astounding and u've never truly heard her words til u've heard her read them.. but still, here's a piece by her. not my #1 favorite but the only one ive found on the net.

its long but its really good.

Brown Country

Why certainly I loves country
am partial to a sad sappy love song
and head back howling for a lost love
I live to the tune of hoping hopelessly
I am country
and drawn to the music of the land
not the red on the white in the blue
but the green and the amber
and the ochre-orange country
Natively black foot
with land earth ocean
where fathers and their mothers smoldered
in the name of the Union
how come ain't no sad country songs
about Indians being holocausted
or Africans jumping the broom on Sundays
for to never see their Sweety again
When it's only me
I turn the car radio to it
the spot where God-Family-Country live
polygamously
through the silence a voice laughs asking
"You ain't really gonna listen to that are you?"
Yeah Good Buddy I'm listening
so let the chips fall where they may
Because I do
do so love the brown and the black
of the red on the white in the blue

Does loving country and craving a song
that brings my own black-balled eyes
up to the depth of my haunted-hunted heart
does that make me a country music fan
a natural for sorrow
a Charlene Pride of poetry
a black country singer
with acoustic and eraser
plucking a nappy live wire

I who sing along with the twanging
of the car radio
with country songs
when nobody is listening
how do you explain being African
and loving country
not the red or the white in the blue
but the green and the amber and the ochre-orange
You never explain
just let the good times roll

Carolina born
so I seen it all
from sea to shining sea island
I play it back to you
with a pencil sharp guitar
and hambone hard with the other
I come backed by fiddle and calypso
And on certain notes
my gullah starts to drawl

Mercy Me
I’ll throw my head back in a minute
even close my eyes tight when I sing
it’s always something about losing my head
or making up with
Or just plain wallowing in the pain of love
Awww come on now
You know how it goes

I’m no Dolly or Billy Ray
But I sho am country

And when I’m gone
Please somebody feed my cat
and in return I’ll make my voice
low country quiver real good
then roll for you
you laughing but
this really ain’t nothing "shakey bakey"
cause I know folks born in a Holler
who scream all their life
and nobody ever writes a song about them
shouldn’t that be a country’s song too
or is that only poverty
and the private property of Bluesmen
and Plumbleached women
another jurisdiction
another country

At the end of my singing
it’s always so Grand Old Oprey hot
that my mascara’s usually running
and by then the Breck hairspray
has wilted my locks
back to lion size normal
and I’m ready to unhitch my silver buckle
drop my jean skirt to the floor
and find me some indigo
to wrap back around my waist

WellShootGoodBuddy
what more do I have to do to prove it
I tell you it’s true I am a black country singer
Cause what there is for me to sing about
Should make you push your beer to the side
and take a walk through some
Black family farm land some
Black burial grounds
now sold and desecrated
by golf ball signs that say ‘Private Drive’
should make you want to know
this singing southerner’s truth
it’s my job living in this brown country
to take you inside of real live heartache
and make you tap your foot long enough
and make you smile at yourself
until you recognize your Daddy’s face floating
in what I’m saying

Until you ask yourself
as you walk away
does she really listen to Country music
or was that just a poem

Oh why am I fooling myself
They won’t never say
I ever sang a good country song
I’m the wrong shade of country
They’ll just be mad
that I never let you forget for one minute
that country, the land, is color coded
and that country, the music, is pretty shady too

Country
the twanging one you always hear
is sometimes sad
but always sweet
steeped in honor and family
and cheating checkered skirts
and the backside of some poor slithering creature
pummeled and stretched
into a pair of roach killing boots
they dance to the sizzling notes that
I just lean and listen to
the long and lazy stretched out lines
about life
but whose life
and whose country

This is not about happy endings
this music ain’t concerning Cinderellas
but stepsisters and sons and pumpkins
and shoes that never fit some feet
and the lonely of life
and how dance it back away
so why does
this Black girl’s iambic feet
always have to doe-see-doe in your face about it
why does she have to sing country music
to herself
along in her car to not be afraid
why can’t she buy a front row seat
and wave to Naomi Judd
singing those too close to Aretha like lines
"I love you so stinking much that
if you ever try and leave me I’m with you"

I love country
for the tender story
for the blazing heart
for the ache and sorrow sweetness
that is always there
for the green in the amber of the ochre-orange
in the red on the white of the blue
that I always feel

Oh what the hell
I am country I like
listening to its sweet tang
linger like a sour apple
baked to the pipes of my roasted mouth

As I drive this back road
I take taste of it
as I pull into this honkey tonk gas station
and pump 5 dollars premium
I sing along until
I hear my radio’s same song even louder now
and look around for the twin source
rolling out a hiked up summertime window
there in the diner next to the station
I know the words but my daddy’s lips freeze
I end my harmless sing-a-long and look up

I fall into dozens of crawling all over me eyes
that accompany the Kentucky Headhunter tune
they are full of catfish and budweiser and quickly
turn into razors swinging in the August air

I feel the blood gushing
cutting the music into
the red then the white the blue of my brown

This place where the cowboy under the hat
spits the color of my mother’s skin out his window
I was taught never to step inside
he knows all this an follows my every move
guzzling down his yahoo drink
he brings his buddies to the looking glass
they zip their pants
up and down like a fiddle
as one of them begins to step away from the rest
I need to pay for my gas and go
but my swinging feet are stitched frozen to my lips
I look away to the woods all around
My grandfather is untying himself from all the trees
He pops and stretches his many necks back into place
He steps toward me
He says I should consider history
the payment in full

Country music is historical
This is the music we were lynched by
These are the hangman’s songs

____________________
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http://brokeymcpoverty.com
http://splackavelliecentral.wordpress.com
http://aboutmygranny.tumblr.com
http://naturalhairproblems.com

and the men too,

click

& now that i look at it, the # of men & women in the group are equal. neat.

i be lyin sometimes, tho.

____________________
natural hair tshirts & tote bags!
http://brokeymcpoverty.bigcartel.com


http://brokeymcpoverty.com
http://splackavelliecentral.wordpress.com
http://aboutmygranny.tumblr.com
http://naturalhairproblems.com

this is so fucking hard
im mad i waited so long to read it...its length is intimidating
but the build up and the ending are worth the time
im already looking for her on amazon to add to my wish list
and then my can only read it in the summer b/c im in college list

this was a treat
thank u for delivering it
i cant git over the ending

the ending is so fucking hard.


This place where the cowboy under the hat
spits the color of my mother’s skin out his window
I was taught never to step inside
he knows all this an follows my every move
guzzling down his yahoo drink
he brings his buddies to the looking glass
they zip their pants
up and down like a fiddle
as one of them begins to step away from the rest
I need to pay for my gas and go
but my swinging feet are stitched frozen to my lips
I look away to the woods all around
My grandfather is untying himself from all the trees
He pops and stretches his many necks back into place
He steps toward me
He says I should consider history
the payment in full

Country music is historical
This is the music we were lynched by
These are the hangman’s songs

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

* this has gone thru so many revisions, and it is still not where i want. honestly, ive given up on it for awhile, but for this month...for the girls...it's all ours

'for alice walker'

so what was ur mother marchin for?
the rite to pack diaphragms in construction boots & crotchless panties?

the rite to burn bras on babylon's totem poles, for the price of a
carton of newports and conceals while it heals foundation...clearer
skin... reduces the signs of fine lines and wrinkles for a more
natural, healthier glow paid for w/ alimony checks supplied by daddy dearest.

what was ur mother marchin for? b/c mine aint march for shit, said my
rites were already decreed to me and i aint have to kill no babies in
order to wear my cleavage. so what was ur mother marchin for in 1960?
pink & yellow pills now available at ur OBGYN take one, same time
every day, cant nobody force us to have kids.
b/c in 1973 they lied!
ur mother wasnt marchin for dem babies, she was marchin for herself!
she aint march for the rite to say this is my choice, she marched for
the rite to say mthafka flip ur own gotdamn pork chops!
cant u see im busy???
she was marchin for the rite to say clean ur pubic hairs frum up off
of the toilet seat,

be quiet b/c my soaps are on

while ur mother thought she was marchin for dem babies in the 1st and
2nd trimesters my mama already was sayin pussy is pwr, she had the
rite to spit in public places meet u at the urinal, her uterus is
dble jointed, sit back & watch my mama piss standin up!

what was ur mother marchin for?
b/c mine was always free
she didnt need
THE MAN
SUM MAN
A MAN
ANY MAN
to tell her she shld walk in the streets baring a head full of
rollers be late for work (blk women were dispensable for their cause)
certify and collect medicaid become a part of the system built by
ANY MAN
A MAN
SUM MAN
THE MAN!
yall was in the streets when my mama was home tuckin me in coatin my
eardrums w/ wax that said "baybee u r sumbody"
so what was ur mother marchin for in silver hoops that attracted the
refrigerator magnets she utilized to post notes for ur daddy that
read "be home later, TV dinner is in the microwave, heat for 5-7
minutes"

what the fk was ur mother marchin for? to pop pink & yellow
anti-BODIES supposed to be for her-BODY side effects include but r
not limited to:
pulmonary embolism
stroke
angina pectoris
hypertension
ur mother wasnt marchin for the rite to kill her fetus
she was marchin for the rite to kill herself b/c Carl
Djerassi told her it was okay.
pink and yellow pills
the new vaginal rites enablers
fueled buses full of women
labia locked screamin

THIS IS OUR BODY!
THIS IS OUR RITE!

they werent marchin for rites to be complacent housewife, they were
marchin for rites to have consensual sex in undisclosed timeshares
to use pill
& abuse condom
utilize abortion as method of birth control
grow fibrous tumours in left breasts
cut off maimed sex-less objects chemotherapy treatments husband wont
fk u NOW but THEN u was marchin to tell him that u aint wanna fk just
yet anyway u was marchin to say

"i dont feel like it tonite"
"i got a headache"

my mama wasnt marchin in the streets w/ urs
she was busy greasin pussy pwr #9 into my follicles
HOLD UR EARS! MIND I DONT BURN U!
my mama was home listenin to nina and aretha swayin w/ daddy in the doorway
cut us w/ her backhand
when we was outta hand
showed us who had the upper hand
b/c she was the bigger woman
(but we would get there one day)
what was ur mother marchin for? my mama gave me my rites at conception.
oiled her stretch marks so they wldnt spread in my daddy's sex sweat,
told me i aint gotta stop lovin my man to be free.
she was her own rites (of passage) movement
she didnt need chocolate ice cream and
cosmopolitan clippins to know she bleeds once a month,
every month.
our kismet has been determined.

janis joplin need not chant to re-affirm the position of the nipples
on my breasts.

(tho she is a bad bitch)

i am woman w/o marchin one step
i was female when executing and masticating my first breath
my soul is the colour purple, got fuchsia umbels on magenta wingspans
my violet seeds scatter and migrate
north by southwest & embed themselves in lilac earth.
i am a fixated wisteria in a field of promenading lilies.
feminism marches, womanism stands.

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

i wish i was still in school so i cld put that on a million flyers and paper the walls in the room the feminist group meets in.

i be lyin sometimes, tho.

____________________
natural hair tshirts & tote bags!
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http://brokeymcpoverty.com
http://splackavelliecentral.wordpress.com
http://aboutmygranny.tumblr.com
http://naturalhairproblems.com

that helped me out, cared for me...

mom... i love you, unconditionally... and the good thing is that you know it... even though you could be a dork sometimes, i love the relationship we have with each other... i can talk about things with you and i know you would support me regardless if i was even wrong... thanks for getting mad at me for dumb things that i have done in the past, thank you for hugging me everyday, but you gotta stop saying that you love me all the time, i know that you do! ...

grandma... you're in istanbul turkey right now... i love you too, even after you said all that stuff to my mom, i forgot that you raised me to be who i am right now...

jessica... one of my best friends... you know i love you, and i appreciate what you've done... i greatly admire you...

patil... i love you as a close friend, and hopefully in the future we'd be something more than just close friends ;-]... for all those smiles you put on my face, i couldn't appreciate you any more...

petra... you know i love you, cmonnn all those talks... how we both give each other advice.... i cant wait til this summer! imma see your ass haha ;-]

miss photo... i gotta give love to you... thanks for the advice, thank your for being you... thank you period.

and for all the other women on this web site... its all love... have fun in your month...

"i never disrespect women cause i love my momma" - talib kweli

---us guys... we gotta live by that.

______________________
i try to practice my war like tactics, but in the clutch of your touch my armor just collapses - mighty mos def

www.myspace.com/methodicaleddie

& its been a while while since i posted in freestyle..


Women of Buhodle

Allah has called you
By your appellation

Naya
Lady
Bibi


Jump up
And beat down
The patriarchal
Worms eating you
From the inside

Swaying honeys
Your transparent
Cloth wont cover
Up body fat
And curves of
Loneliness

Don’t kill

Us

To be Adam’s
Bruised rib
Beaten by passion
Wrapped in a dirty
Niqaab

Dear mother,
Willingness
Chants in the dawn
Between
Yes and no
Later and now

When comfort found
You in silent compromise
And I wish Hope
Could challenge
Your fire to burn
Down sterilized
Dreams
And scattered pieces of you
Rotten in United Nations
Neglected camps
Where confrontation
Sleeps
In between two
Clans on the
Cushion of
A nation

Woman of Buhodle

I hear your stumbling
Cry

Because

“ drum are never beaten without a reason”



____

no coco no cry ©


*TWINNING*

____

hate keeps my teeth white

Don’t kill

Us

To be Adam’s
Bruised rib
Beaten by passion
Wrapped in a dirty
Niqaab

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

*for Saartjie Saartman/Hottentot Venus

london never wrote a poem for you
because john keats couldn't find the words to fit around your hips
and the blue in london's eyes made them blind
in the sun
that you were created from
that’s why they couldn't see the sonnet that god scribbled
on the small of your back
so they stared and they giggled
while sewing corsets around their shapeless lives
and 'round their shapeless wives
men dreamt of sliding down the slope of your breasts
landing in the nook that separated you from normality
with hopes that your musical tongue would teach them how to dance

they named you venus
for a reason

despite what they have been teaching
in universities and women magazines
their daughters still manage to nip and tuck the truth
you were their prototype
and they're still trying to figure out a way to clone
your bones
into their genes
perfectly
because they know
you were the first super model
your body was made an art museum
by france
way before they fell in love with
the sweat on joesphine baker’s thighs
or the curve of nina simone's lips when she sang
it was you that they held on to
even after death
they made your soul their home
but they never wrote a poem
because they were too busy
searching for the meaning of life
inside of you
men hid their secret confessions
lodged between your cervix and uterus
because your body was proof that god existed

and you became their messenger

carrying their burdens
until you became so heavy that you drowned in their sins
forgetting to leave the correct pronunciation
of your name behind
so that we, your descendants
with hips just as wide and lovely
could honor you properly

as your memory rest
back in the cradle of dark soil
i am whispering this poem
towards the east
hoping that you can hear me

you are beautiful.

---
→ → →

© my rights reserved.

www.sheflypaper.com

i dunno how on earth i missed this

this was dope yo

and im always so excited to find someone who knows ms bartman's story

rene cox did a really dope photo art piece based on her life and story and it was amazing.. i wish i could find pix of it online

i think people should write poems and take pictures for her. we can give her her life back and we dont know what she'd say if she was around still, but she needs a voice & her story needs to be told

this was nice.
thank u very much for sharing

they named you venus
for a reason


could have been the entire poem.

i gotta pick up that book...i saw in essence about her life
git my education on

thanx for this*

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

-Otto

*laughs*

sweat licks the length of her back
in mid arc
and
diamonds richocet off cocoa butter

i can smell her grimace
still she flings the gift of life relentlessly
eager to show the Cleopatra in her roots
or maybe just
the moon of God's true sex

my hollers of 'push'
have simmered to mumbles
i am humbled
and crying
and cursing
beauty
because it doesnt have the Right
to even try to describe her

_____________________________________

The cry I bring down from the hills
__________belongs to a girl still burning
__________inside my head. At daybreak

____________________she burns like a piece of paper. - YK

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

like
'na. that's not how jesus said it.
and why you mumbling son?'


no lightning strike/go to hell-o

_____________________________________

The cry I bring down from the hills
__________belongs to a girl still burning
__________inside my head. At daybreak

____________________she burns like a piece of paper. - YK

fuck the microphone
don't need no
dick to put her lips to
to grasp in her tiny hands
once deemed too dainty by
the boys who raced to carry
her crates so she wouldn't
strain your sexy little back, ma

you got little wrists and
you gone need to cut those nails
battling is boy business, ma
we got that aggressive edge
cause we all sexually frustrated
laugh laugh naw you know we get ours
but you ma
look at the way you look

and while she wouldn't admit
to them that her appearance was
even the slightest concern
she favored the shiny vinyl
for just that reason
for the moment every night
when she killed the wheel's momentum
and caught a tinted glance back
at her night's truest payoff:
sweat and world-filtered satisfaction

they stopped helping her
lug the discs to her car
knowing that no matter how
many heated looks she gave
no matter how much she chewed
her bottom lip with that
savage sexual intent

it wasn't meant for them.

so she
seduced by the notes she
mixed and matched with reckless abandon
in fact
seduced more by that very abandon
slept naked
wide open windows
cool bay breeze replacing soft
well-intentioned touch
dreaming and waking and fumbling
her hands across the body she
knew they were at that minute
discussing over blunts and brews

convinced
that soon
beats and
boys and
her beauty
would dance
in time

DROP.
YOUR.
SWORD.

BITCH.

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

(cuz she was the 1st one to tell me who and what i was writing for when i didn't know it)

for k. l. moore

the world ain't ready for
you. each word, each phrase,
the globe sits spinning,
afraid of what will come next.
u put sentences in chokeholds,
niggas quick to find cover,
sister/friend.
my gurl times 10. infinite
love bestows, rests within
my mind for you.

wanted to pen something in
ur honor, wanted to tell
u how much ur name
made an impact on my life---
but... the words never
come out the way a writer
wants them to.
and i struggle to find
precise descriptions of
my love for you, yet
i make circles my friends,
since i always end up
at the beginning.

and you will be reborn
soon. she or he will
write for you as well.
will grow to learn every word
webster has to offer---he or she
will gracefully bow and know
u've mothered the best
happening to your life.
and i can see you privately
coping with motherhood,
writing when u can,
speaking when its appropriate,
loving others who love you,
because that's only rite.

i'd shoot the moon
with a small squint of
my eyes if you
said your happiness would
come from it.
i'd lay down my words, wrap them
up and ship them to you
because that's what sisters
do. and i know now,
all that you have, all that you
own, u keep to self, because
there's always someone out
to take it.

"u're writing for the cosmos, girl."

and like hell, i am...

©Tremaine L. Loadholt, August 2004






================





i apologize. ©anita baker

and here it is...w/love

"Dreaming Kiera"

& for awhile i had set aside my wurds
not sure of whut they cld do
& whut purpose they served
& for awhile i didnt realize i was comparing
me to u, & all the while i was admirin whut it was u did
but i never wanted others to compare us, b/c we were so different
being so much the same & i wanted that understood.

readin ur wurds was like readin my secrets whispered back to me
& i wanted to scream, scream, scream mad at u, how did u know that
how cld u write that
how cld u tell everyone else
who have u been talking to
& why were u in my head so long long time
repeatin to me all the things i hid frum myself
ur wurds were mirrors remindin me of
uglee things i didnt want
anyone seein, but u showed
& i still had to love you
b/c u didnt know then those
were my thoughts
& my secrets
& they belonged to me
alone.

& i dreamed u sumtimes behind me
cuz i thought it & u spoke it, & maybe u sayin it
gave me the courage to say it too
& i neva took it as tryin to be u, cuz i always be me
i wake up like this.
but they dont understand
i cant rip the gap
frum my mouth
or thighs
b/c its drk there
& nuthin there
& God gave me just a little bit of
space for myself
to sit sumtimes
& be me
& not cry
& neva laff
just sit silent w/ no wurds
b/c in my gaps there are no wurds
so i cannot strangle myself
w/ hands i dont see
in the gaps
there is blk
& it is blinding.

i dreamed kiera
dreamin of gulla
before u said geechie
me bein the girl growed up
on rice & sugar & butter & blk pepper
i dreamed u behind me
& once i lead u instead of the
other way around
& we sat hip to hip
grazin shoulders
& then i knew i cld tell u my secrets
b/c ur breath was safe
& i smelled rosemary under ur tongue
& instead of wunderin how it got there
i told u
all my secrets
but by then u made up ur mind
to stop writing
so maybe i was too late
dreaming u & i
as nel & sula
w/ two throats & one eye
neva on the sparrow
b/c no one watches ova us.
they just watch
laffin
when breasts heave
& my dreams dont come true.

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

I think we were the only family that owned a two-door, burnt-orange Monte Carlo with white and tan interior on the block. Yes, I’m fairly sure. A-, next door, had a white ‘76 Pontiac with the bird emblem on the hood, that resembled takeoff by the way it was parked on the driveway; L-’s mother used to pick us up from elementary school in what seemed to be at the time an 18-passenger wagon. In comparison, the Monte Carlo, by the time I got to know it, had ripped vinyl dangling from inside the roof; the upholstery torn and ragged by pens and knives and fingernails. It drove well, though, and I suppose that is all that matters in retrospect; what only mattered to her then: transportation.

In 1986, The Temptations released the album, “To Be Continued,” which included the track, “My Lady Soul.” It was not too long after this we moved farther outside the desert away from nearly everyone in the Valley. One main road extended to our house, but people rarely decided to drive this far as it was then undeveloped, or to speak in builder’s terms simply “underdeveloped,” meaning five years until traffic lights, apartments, and Wal-Mart--which all happened by the way, I might add, although this is not the point. In summation, we learned something about music.

Back in the 80’s my mother’s head was full of curls; one curl sprang out from the next shaping a dozen roses, then rain clouds after he died. And those glasses! A little too big now according to modernity, but that was then and this is now; bifocals, too, were modish at some point in time. And somewhere during the time referred to here, those soulful crooners, The Temptations, appeared (yet again) with a new album. I didn’t altogether care for them, preferring the Four Tops instead; however, driving to school, doctor’s appointments, “errands,” as he would say, the four of us, piled into the back, all trying to avoid the “middle seat,” did not have a choice.

She forever played that song. We learned the words, parodied it, sang it to ourselves, never quite understanding the meaning of the song besides that she liked it, though nowhere even near Sam Cooke’s worst. “*I* take care of my kids," she’d say to C- , whenever he would interrupt the song with an overblown tabulation of his familial support. In this way, patriarchy suffocated and eventually died in the household. Because of this, I still have everything intact, not to mention the ability to laugh and cry.

I will not say she set out on this path. She would not--however endearing I try to make it seem--label herself as a revolutionary for loving and providing for her kids. After all, she first pressed her hair in ‘72. Besides that, I generally hate labels and am sure the people they’re applied to hate existing within the confines of words as well. Unfortunately, in this instance, I have no other way. When she reads this I hope she will understand that I understand, at least partially, the roses in the front yard, and the music.

i enjoy this, grape.

but you do it every, single time.

Back in the 80’s my mother’s head was full of curls; one curl sprang out from the next shaping a dozen roses, then rain clouds after he died. And those glasses! A little too big now according to modernity, but that was then and this is now; bifocals, too, were modish at some point in time. And somewhere during the time referred to here, those soulful crooners, The Temptations, appeared (yet again) with a new album. I didn’t altogether care for them, preferring the Four Tops instead; however, driving to school, doctor’s appointments, “errands,” as he would say, the four of us, piled into the back, all trying to avoid the “middle seat,” did not have a choice.

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

She was a two-legged wall in the doorway
At a minute passed 9.

A whip of her tongue
And earthquakes shuddered the monkey bars
Where we hung like loose teeth.

Oh, we could see her bracelets,
Gleaming like the lips of pistols,
Like thunderous cymbals,
Clanging up and down her forearms.

We could feel her gaze,
A brutal spotlight
Surging from a heaven bent stratosphere
Like some omnipotent jet.

And the houses down the street
Dimmed into nothing but yellow eyes.

And the grass did not move.

“Y'all better get your little behinds home!”

It was not a good sign when she began to discuss backsides.

“You know what,
no, don’t even come home.
Don’t even come strolling on in here this late!”

It’s at that time when she tells you to not even do something,
That you absolutely must.

So, we stumbled home,
Our bicycles, dragging behind,
Shaking like the air conditioner in the top floor window.

The porch light blinked as she rumbled,
Ready to yank us, safe
Under the ceiling of her wrath.

And I could hear the sick harmonic of trembling,
The horrid gnashing of gold-capped teeth,
And the looming sentence
That was soon to burn over our tear ducts:

No TV for a week.

A two-legged wall,
My mother.

a satisfactory adjective for what it is uve accomplished.
my one-worders arent justice enuff, nor my rants needed.

i read this very slowly
very carefully
word for word
evaluating the placement of each word

i guess ive waded thru so much bullshit
whether its the mundane or the predictable
or college reading--

that ive learned to read over words,
and in this way
ive learned to gain a lot quickly,
but, in sum cases-- miss much.

so--
i was sure to read this carefully
measuring each word
its placement
its connotation/denotation
taking what i know of u
and what im reading here
and putting a meaning together for myself.

u are so flyy.

>She was a two-legged wall in the doorway
>At a minute passed 9.

i thought of audre luorde right here
>
>A whip of her tongue
>And earthquakes shuddered the monkey bars
>Where we hung like loose teeth.

i read this many, many times
>
>Oh, we could see her bracelets,
>Gleaming like the lips of pistols,
>Like thunderous cymbals,
>Clanging up and down her forearms.
>
this looked like light.

>We could feel her gaze,
>A brutal spotlight
>Surging from a heaven bent stratosphere
>Like some omnipotent jet.

every mama-- but esp yours
>
>And the houses down the street
>Dimmed into nothing but yellow eyes.

nice
>
>And the grass did not move.
>
>“Y'all better get your little behinds home!”
>
>It was not a good sign when she began to discuss backsides.
>
>“You know what,
>no, don’t even come home.
>Don’t even come strolling on in here this late!”
>
>It’s at that time when she tells you to not even do
>something,
>That you absolutely must.
>
>So, we stumbled home,
>Our bicycles, dragging behind,
>Shaking like the air conditioner in the top floor window.

made me think of 'nikki rosa'
>
>The porch light blinked as she rumbled,
>Ready to yank us, safe
>Under the ceiling of her wrath.

safe--- how important here in relation to the word wrath
>
>And I could hear the sick harmonic of trembling,
>The horrid gnashing of gold-capped teeth,
>And the looming sentence
>That was soon to burn over our tear ducts:

well-measured, full lines
>
>No TV for a week.
>
and the death sentence, but a safe one none the less, yes??

>A two-legged wall,
>My mother.

gorgeous.

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

and this is most certainly related to women.

do you find your creativity surging around the time Aunt Flow comes around?

and yes, i could say your period or menstruation, but i like the way aunt flow sounds, it makes me giggle.

ive never noticed one way or the other, but i have started writing again, and it's very close to that time. maybe some of yall more in tune with your bodies could help.


it might just be coincidence. that's the cynic in me.

cycle or no... i am more emotional around that time, so the poems are a bit more personal, but i am writing always... whether it's poem, or journaling, or personal quotes... something in me is always evolving, but i will admit around that time, the work is a bit more emotional/personal...


http://sadlymstaken.journalspace.com
http://sadlymstaken.blogspot.com
http://www.sheflypaper.com/honeychile.html
http://profiles.myspace.com/users/6665039

http://www.sheflypaper.com

may you learn hard lessons and
pray with ease. ©lei

on my period.
im sure i have--
but no specific woman flow energy

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

"her ass"

the question hit my ear like water to hot grease
it ended in a please
and, like lovers who love not to argue i said ‘yes.’

undressing and watching him
for the slightest change in temperament
classifying his mood as giddy
and i suspended in the mockery of the question.

folded in the pit of his arm
we lent eyes to the images on the screen.

“i cannot watch ths”
but his eyes were concentrated
on this asian thing
too uncomfortably put together
to be a woman
as she bent her ass downward
to create artificial moans
we watched quietly
as she swallowed
and choked
laughed
and pleaded
for the drips to drop again.

i waited for it
the movement of his thigh
a tilt in his head
a heavier breath on my brow
anything to insinuate
an erection
as the asian thing climbed atop
high heeled
big breasted
bare boned
barely any meat on
her ass

he checked my inbetweens
for readiness
my mouth for willingness
i tried to camouflage disgust
the asian thing
fucking in the periphery
of my lovemaking
the light of the screen
shattering on my breasts
and I look at the asian thing
turned demon
black haired
and evil eyed
galloping wide
as shoulders
the inarticulate screams
becoming backlashes and curses
death sentences for the skull
cuts for the arms
this asian thing
opening up
and swallowing his erection from inside of me.

the laughter the demon laughs when she is satiated
the way he stares at me and says
“lift up slowly”
and i do to be accommodating.

this is too vulgar to commit to memory,
so i reduce it to a pain.

silence confirms my stance.
women, like me,
need to throw something
need to hit something
need somebody else to hurt too
when sucking teeth
and cutting eyes
are no longer sufficient.

“She aint built nothing like me.
Just look at that bitch-
just look at her ass.
She aint nothing like me
look at her ass.”

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

i just found this in my blog dated 4/13/04
id forgotten all abt it & havent reread it yet cause i prolly wont post it if i do

its real long

liteskinned girls

-prologue-
i stood back and watched them babies dance
lil liteskinned girls, all of them
with almost-curly-but-not-quite kinks
did up in ball-balls and barrets
and smiles
lord how them babies gave us smiles
brighter than they skin
cause they were showin us what they had learned
of their mothers and of Africa
bells on they ankles
that used to be shackles
mouths full of ancient gospel
they barely understood

them babies danced
landin light on liteskinned feet and
parting the air with tan hands
they mamas and daddies, some lighter
some darker, they all smiled
cause they babies weren't out in the street
learnin god knows what from god knows who
they wasn't our walkin the path that landed
so many other blklives
where whitefolk expect us to be

--------

we never forget to worry bout
what blkfolk expect us to be.

we must have sumthin in us
we got brighter and browner than new pennies and
soft peanut butter cream for skin
and seas and oceans of waves rooted in our scalps
and names that aint spelled like Saffronia
but sound the same
we ain't all blk, but we still got that ass, tho
we still got that nose and them hips
and that slip in our backbones ttat make us okay
to be wanted and lusted and lovingly fetishized
eroticized beyond recognition/we just a
big blur of foreign Afrikanness
a silent burning haze of
always almost-but-not-quite blakness
we aint all blk & we think we 'all that'
sumthin must be in us
and we must be extra proud of it
the weight of big curly ponytails or
long tractless tresses aint what forces us to
strain to hold our heads high
we must think we're better
fuck that, we know we better &
we got a right to overlook you
bequeathed to us by the motherfuckers
who so graciously fucked our mothers
against their wills
so that we can continue the division
that makes us easier to conquer.

liteskinned girls got vocal cords
sometimes shaved lighter than their flesh

when we try to speak about our frustration
our voices suddenly take the cadences of rich ppl
complainin bout designer shoes
not comin in the right color
when we shout about justice and injustice
and reparations and control of blk bodies
we must be compensating for something
someone told us was missing
when we were young and dancing for Africa
with bells around our ankles
(today they mask the shackles)
and ancient gospel in our mouths
that ppl assume we can't understand
cause the curls and waves clog our ears
and cloud our eyes
(is this why we lock our hair?
to see clearer?)

whether locked or permed or
pressed or curled,
tomorrow seems destined to be filled full of nothing but
hair that dont have to be permed and nails
that dont need acryllic tips
we will get picked first to
take food from our babies mouths
to buy thousand dollar outfits and
shake our asses in somebody's video
and directly after we'll rejoin the welfare lines
we'll go to the section 8 offices
to city hall to bail out our sons and husbands or
to the city morgue to identify our sons and husbands
we'll look for African dance classes
to put our lil liteskinned babies in
in hopes of givin them a shelter of commonality
to shield them in this unsleeping storm of 'other'ness
to keep them outta the street,
learnin god knows what from god knows who
we won't want them on that path
that has put our babies right where whitefolk
expect them to be

but our own roads are strewn with
hazardous self-hatred and
too many poisoned-tipped forks
that force us to choose between ourselves
and ourselves.

----------
-epilogue-

there is somethin in us.
it is that same somethin that was put into our grandmothers
and yours
something they didn't want
and didn't ask for
and now we're all strugglin with the afterbirth
tryin to lick it from our necks and napes
not realizing that we'll be free of the past much quicker
if we forget it long enough to wash
and watch
each other's backs.

prolouges and epilouges very interesting
bookends if u will
it adds another dimension to what ure doing
like....the words need
a beginning middle and end
that cannot be achieved w/ conventional stanzas

& it makes what ure saying
that much more important

i enjoyed these lines:
we must be compensating for something
someone told us was missing

it damn near sums up everything u said

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

the sun is shinin bright as hell outside but it's rainin like the devil.

'the devil is beating his wife'

i've always wondered about that phrase. such a negative & dreary stigma for sumthin so inspiring as the sun cutting thru thunderheads to shine even tho it ain't posed to.

'the devil's wife is shinin even tho she ain't posed to.'

but that wld akin the sun to the devil (if it's the devils wife that's shining, that wld make her the sun, right? which wld be in cohorts w/ evil itself, being married to it & all), & i suppose something so celestial & heavenly shld be held as a polar opposite to hellfire & brimstone & alla that.

know what tho?
i think that maybe it's not such a negative connotation after all. she got a lil too bright for him; he beats her cause he's scared of her beauty & sheen. drop after drop after drop, he sends his goons out to drive the masses indoors, out of her rays & away from her beauty. u'd think she'd just shy away w/ no one on earth to keep her company, but nope. she's still out, still shining.

so the devil is beating his wife.

still, she shines.

i bet if lil blk girls knew that, it wld be the one time they brave those liquid fists & risk gettin their perms wet to play in the sun.

very nice

like what u said in ur last line
made an ol girl like me think
when's the last time i went w/o my umbrella
or scarf and bobbypins

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

im a few days late (3/15), but my mom is always first in my heart.

Happy 53rd birthday, Mom



peace
ladee

had the pleasure of hosting her at my school last week...
an UNFORGETTABLE presentation. a very intelligent, STRONG, sexy woman.

I've googled her here...
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=ISO-8859-1&q=carrie+mae+weems



peace
ladee

im very interested in her work...wrote a paper on her last year, and definitely looking to do more. what i really want is to get her on the phone! but phone calls to beijing are expensive



http://images.google.com/images?hl=en&lr=&ie=ISO-8859-1&q=yin+xiuzhen



peace
ladee

http://wupa.wustl.edu/asmbly/bio/Nochlin

:)

"breast cancer"

i had cancer
so it seems
i found this out
thru my mutha
she bein diagnosed little ova a month ago
i too gave myself this
self examination
only to find no lumps
the OBGYN found no lumps
but i had cancer
in a moment reminiscent of "in search of my mutha's garden"
b/c ive found my very own
not in my breasts but sumwhere under my skin.

& so it seems like many otha women who fear losing their mutha i turned
to search for my purpose, & in doing so, all i cld do is culminate an
open apology to my sisters, who i have abandoned in my attempts to be
"that bitch." i havent kept it real w/ the most important person it
seems.
me.
ive been letting this disease roam thru my veins, but unless ur looking
for symptoms, ud easily brush it off as "vanity, jealousy, not giving
a fk." its been insecurity, all this time, and my eyes arent green they
are shaded w/ shame & sorrow at being able to point out the wrongs in
everyone except myself. the shame & sorrow of being able to turn my
nose
up to my sisters, but accept him w/ his flaws, and mistakes, and
imperfections,
and sheer fkedupedness, and coyly be like "its okay baybee." be shamed
& have sorrow for having his back, but cutting them "chickens" off at
the neck, cuz they playin games, but the only thing played was me like
an old jukebox brotha blew the dust off & inserted exact change b/c i
didnt present myself as being wurth much more.
chemotherapy cant help me rite now
but self examination has.
my purpose to apologize to my sisters, women who wld otherwise mean
less to me than un-brought trinkets at flea markets. this cancer was
so flagrant it stunk like sumthing festering in my site, but i didnt
see my tears turnin to shit in front of me. lookin down at my breasts,
naked, hangin heavy frum weight, burden, lies, uglee, things ive tried
to deny, far too long. 36 DDD leaves not much room for mistakes, so
weighing
options was an easier task than i had thought. in accepting my mutha's
cancer, i began self-surgery to remove mine, and keep it in remission.
what had i dun to myself? petty squabbles, hateful glares, "bitch
please,
u think u cute" i cld have patented the phrase, boxed it, sold it,
distributed
it, and in all my writing to "save" blk women i wld have been only
hurting
them further. these same women i embrace so eagerly as "confidante" and
will dismiss as "trifling, back stabbing, man snatching." the one thing
snatched was me frum myself acting uppity, full of stupidity, pity is
not whut i sought it was justification for my actions i knew wrong, but
like many before me i said "so the fk whut?"
its been awhile since ive kept it real.
since i really walked to the corner store in bed slippers, socks, a tee
shirt, no bra, and really didnt care if anyone was outside looking at
me, b/c i did care more than i dare say. fidgeting w/ my clothing,
wundering
if i "looked rite." my cancer cld not be found in my breasts, b/c it
had already invaded my soul, and no prple books, or self help courses,
or yoga cld get me back together.
i had broke myself into many different pieces, many different years to
go, and in order to be whole again, i had to realize my purpose. for
whut i stood on was not solid ground, it was my dead ends & i had not
conditioned, but i was conditioned into thinking as long as i dont
think
about it, it will be okay.
as long as he loves me, it will be okay.
as long as he tells the truth, it will be okay.
as long as he wants me, it will be okay.
as long as he wants to fk me, it will be okay.
as long as i can brush my teeth in the morning, it will be alrite,
but it neva was.
i only lied more
pitied more
jealoused more
mocked more
sucked teeth more
rolled eyes more
ate more
& in attempts to fix that too, i exercised away the cancer, not b/c i
wasnt happy w/ my body image, but b/c he doesnt want me fat. he doesnt
want me uglee, he doesnt want me boring, he doesnt want me silent, he
doesnt want me mad, he doesnt want me.
he doesnt want me. the periods, definites, ends of statements dont hurt
as much, when u see the truth in them. being apologetic to my sisters,
i must say, i am exorcising my demons, ridding me of my cancer. my
purpose
no different frum my muthas, to help my own child find her garden one
day, if i live to be so blessed. & part of this purpose leads me to
wunder
if my mutha will ever read this passage to my daughter one day. if
instead
of relying on random house to spread my news, i will go out to the
laundromats,
and the dancehalls, and the corners, and the PTA meetings, and the WIC
waiting room, and the walmart lines, and half way houses, and the
kindergarten
cubby holes & finally be the womyn i pretend to be. and for once i will
not say i apologize, b/c i am sorry, so sorry for my past
transgressions,
for the woman i was, for being everything i professed not to be, for
lying to myself, for not keeping it real, for hating, for manipulating,
for being scared, for distorting, for not crying sooner. for not
recognizing
my mutha in me sooner. for not seein nana in me sooner, for not seein
bille holliday sooner, for not seein etta mae sooner, for not seein the
four women sooner, for not seein my daughter sooner, for not being in
love w/ me sooner. in accepting my mutha's cancer, i rid myself of
mine.
and i love me, and her, and us for every moment i didnt before. my
purpose
is greater than i cld have ever imagined. i am an apologetic womyn who
before didnt know, who just didnt want to know. i am yellow & prple &
red. colours i wld have neva worn before realizing i paint my garden,
and choose my flowers, sow my seeds, water them & watch them grow.

~phat-phat

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

what prompted u to write this...

i had a scare like this recently. a "my mother is mortal and truly wont be here forever, so what does that mean to me" scare
so i understood...


it was my dead ends & i
>had not
>conditioned, but i was conditioned into thinking as long as i
>dont
>think
>about it, it will be okay.
>as long as he loves me, it will be okay.
>as long as he tells the truth, it will be okay.
>as long as he wants me, it will be okay.
>as long as he wants to fk me, it will be okay.
>as long as i can brush my teeth in the morning, it will be
>alrite,
>but it neva was.

*******************
a woman like me
needs to own her own galleries
write her own anthologies
needs blueberry bagels for breakfast
coconut rice for lunch
pork chops & glasses of wine for dinner
nothing but a string of pearls
and some moisturizer
to bed

my great grandmudda has had both breasts removed
my nana died of breast cancer nov 94
they found a lump in my left breast back in 00
my mudda in 02

it scared me, b/c thru genetics, we share a lot
this disease yes---but many vices
& i wanted to express that,
but also express
a world w/o my mama

it's one thing for my mutha
and i to exist as we do now
---it wld be another once she's gone
death is permanent.

who am i w/o my mutha
as i have defined myself around her
all my life???

love u girlie

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

For Brother Blue
by Patricia Smith

Every little colored girl needs a colored man who loves her unconditionally, who treasures her frailties, her sins, the mistakes she makes just pulling in one breath and pushing out the next. She needs someone who knows how her heart bends almost to the point of breaking. What she needs is a lanky, loquacious griot swathed in all the colors the sky has been, a man whose feet never bother to reach the ground, and couldn't if they wanted to, because of all the glittering butterflies lifting him up. What every little colored girl is a man who spots her in a crushing crowd, pushes and pummels to reach her side, and then says • in response to everything she has ever done and ever will do • "You leave me breathless."

(see http://www.louderarts.com/poets/smith/ for the rest...)

Words can't express how much I liked this right here. Lovely!!!
~~~~~~~~
if you like my poems let them
walk in the evening,a little behind you

then people will say
"Along this road i saw a princess pass
on her way to meet her lover(it was
toward nightfall)with tall and ignorant servants." e.e. cummings

And, I dreamed my dreams for her. I dreamed her seventeen and cocky,
mouth full of curse words, no man or mother to burden her. I dreamed
her in white shorts and a matching white tube top sitting on the
cleanest set of steps on 148th Street, brown-bag bottled and cigarette
behind the ear, I dreamed her long-legged and fish-fried. She always
had a taste for fish: cornmeal, a little flour, and black pepper soft
and flaky between her thumbs, wrapped inside wonder bread and hot
sauce. I dreamed her dancing and laughing, loud and obnoxious,
vaselined and baby powdered.. I dreamed her without me. Beautiful,
without a misery, excuse, duty, or responsibility. I dreamed her,
because I loved her.

But, she does not love me. She is selfish and deprecating, linear
minded, and all the time occupied with everything, everyone, the ways
and the going ons, the who's and the happenings but never, ever, me.
At first, I thought it was my fault for not looking like her enough.
If I looked like her more, she would love me more. Then I thought, if
I acted more like her, she could find herself in me. But, she did not,
and I could not become her. And, I learned to be satisfied with loving
her in a dream. All the way until now.

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

*possibly my favourite thing i've ever wrote*

"kimberly jones"

queen
mama drama
revolutionizes
sexual freedom
for ghetto blk gyrls
and notoriously
tattoos
that shit
to her pussy bone.

imported neon wigs
& diamond nipple cufflinks
are not enuff to lay
little taunted kimberly to rest.
kimberly
w/ no titties
& too much chub around the
middle for puffy's liking.
kimberly
i remember when u were 14
fkin street niggas
now u fk ureself for front covers
to claim bigger figures
& tho
u have confessed
to wantin to be betty boop
& not betty wright
b/c all u do is
SAMPLE
SAMPLE
SAMPLE
music & dk
music & dk
music & dk
kimberly i know ur squeaky voice
comes frum the same home
as my father's baritone
& we were each
laminated, enamored, & birthed
on subway platforms
headed for brooklyn
before u were
bill boarded & topless
before i was learnin the ways
of the world.

it gave us the same lessons
cept i stored the science
in a safe place pinned
to my bra & u stored ures
in ur pussy
kimberly
& w/ each fk it just ran out
it just came out w/
the cum of suckin dk on stage
ure science soaked hotel sheets
& now cleanin laydees sing
ur praise
GET MONEY!
kimberly
u can never be barbie
u cant fake more tits,
& every bad boy in
the junior mafia
cant pick em up
when they start to sag
when they start to hang
& i cant resurrect biggie
w/ all my majick
& hixie pixie trickme
cum
get me, lick me, stick me
lets fk in a hurry papi schematics
to make him tell u
that betty boop
never showed
the crack of her ass
on UPN9.
kimberly
i dont hate u
i pity u
b/c dont we all wanna be
molded & materialized
plastic
& perfect
& beautiful all the time
& outrageous
& explicit
& raunchy
& wild?
but after bein played w/
by all the little boys and gurls
we gotsta jump our little plastic
asses rite back into the
box we wanted to avoid in the first place.
kimberly
whyd u let them box u in?
whyd u let them box u in?
not all the dk in the world,
ass fkin, tittie slappin, gyratin,
nor cumshots to center stage will let u out.
kimberly
it will keep u in kimberly
& make u little
& shorten u
& nickname u
nickname u
lil kim.
lil kim w/ the plastic pussy.

gurl
I know that plastic bends
& plastic melts
& it sweats out permed
pussy strands.
girl i remember
when u was
in blk finger waves
& mink coats
now sisqo
sing about
tongue hits
he bring to the center of ure shit
to the center of ure clit
&
aint too many more
positions u
can rhyme about till
u find ureself compromised
& w/o ken
in ur little box
$12.99 at the most
sumwhere on a dusty shelf
clearanced
and especially put aside
for the female
hip-hop sexual revolution
led by the
notorious
K.I.M.
lil kim
little kim
none but a
piece of pussy
to the industry.
a piece of pussy
plastic pussy
boxed in pussy
not even good
for one
mechanical fk.

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

i wrote this about the relationship i envisioned having w/ a daughter one day. thinking about the relationship i have w/ my mutha--and never feeling quite adequate in the space she and i shared...i mirrored my relationship w/ this dream child the same way.

"jumping at the moon" nov/01


& it was that morning she realized she was doomed to be nuthing as great as her mudda. that no trumpets wld sound at her newly accomplished presence, no one wld notice her lip turned slitely in discontent, nothing wld quake at the eruption of her voice. it was at this time she realized just how woman she was. being just that, and never anything more. not to be the poet laureate her mother was. to walk in shadows built by a woman confining wurds in sentences no heavier than the breasts others carry. a mudda celebrated , and a child of simple blood, and a quicker haste.

my mudda is a writer, and that is all i will ever be. & even at the
start of my life to birth me textless, songless, storyless, a fragment to her run-ons. anemia runs deeper than iron lack, w/o poetic voice of my own. to birth me make me no greater than missled children bethlehem attacks, but throw no fists toward mecca. w/o redemption, benefit, i am bruised finger too athritic to ask movement. i am whistle w/o nut. my mudda is a writer, and that is all i will ever be.

she is my child had to be prism, energy stagnant. w/ whut title do i owe ur pain? daughter of wurds i sumtimes fear, pwr i have no choice but succumb to. & to whut great privledge do i owe ur distress? u are my constant, my undefined, my uniformed, my tribal,sacrificed in agony.

& it was this morning she realized her child wld hate her wurds. that
every ink mark made to secure safety and comfort and solitude was in
vain. that her child wld no longer read her wurds. it was at this time she realized her daughter lacked all that was carried in shared genes. that she wld not sing, she wld not write, she wld not dance. she did not care for passions, her hair wld never mount fingers, and twirl tango fk steadily to relieve that itch. her child wld be nuthing like her. she wld not open her legs free of hosiery, and confine his face to drker dinners, red wine on camisoles, sad songs on sundays. it was then she realized her child was not barefoot in the wurld. that she wld have to jump w/ her, but not as high if she were to ever catch the moon.

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

(a sestina...with no envoi)

Mamita was a woman of bony feet,
Dark eyes that burned against light
Skin. Black hair so fine it wld turn to ash
In your fingers. Her husband, my grandfather, Pablo
bore witness to her life in brown
House shoes. Shuffling through memory. I remember

Cousins’ birthday parties & folding tables. Every member
Of the 12-and-under crew slapping concrete with bare feet
Because rubber sandals slowed us down. So ash
Gathered between our toes, remnants of cigarettes Pablo
Refused to smoke but Mamita loved. The end of a Marlboro lit
Up like a star during summer block parties and “brown-

Outs” (we did not call them black cus brown
Was all we knew). During Mah Jong games the ash
Wld fall onto the brite yellow plastic table cloth. Devoted Pablo
Playing with the grandkids, as old ladies tapped red clawed feet
Against the table’s metal legs. I could never remember
How to play the game rite, so I sat twirling the light

In between strands of my hair. I was the lightest
Of my cousins, and Mamitas favorite. Our native brown,
The color of coconuts and deep fried pork, gleamed in Pablo’s
Skin alone, which age had tucked into elephant-folds. He never remembered
The questions he asked me. Instead, he’d sprinkle baby powder like ashes
On the backs of our necks. This WWII General who never admitted defeat

Even when diabetes swallowed Mamita’s left foot, whole.
She never sacrificed her luxuries to her disease. So the sweet brown
Coke confections sat in her blood and ate her from the inside. Pablo
And Mommy and Tita Giselle pleading with Mamita, “don’t you remember
What the Doctor said? Ano Kaba?” But spoiled, beautiful, light-
Skinned Mamita, would rather turn to ash

Then to deny herself what she deserved. A garden of ashes,
A testament to bull-headedness. Mamita stood up to death on one good foot.
Refused to listen to Mommy. Would not remember
When to take her shots. Drinking down warm brown
Branded liquid to bubble in her veins. No antidotes, just light
Dancing on the rim of the glass. And Pablo

With his hands clasped in prayer, on her deathbed. Pablo
Crying at the crematorium. Mommy took pictures to remember
The look on Mamita’s face before blood turned to ash.
I don’t understand her motives, but the ways of brown
Skinned people are funny. We stumble in the light
& tango on tightropes with falling feet.

*******************
a woman like me
needs to own her own galleries
write her own anthologies
needs blueberry bagels for breakfast
coconut rice for lunch
pork chops & glasses of wine for dinner
nothing but a string of pearls
and some moisturizer
to bed

>In between strands of my hair. I was the lightest
>Of my cousins, and Mamitas favorite. Our native brown,
>The color of coconuts and deep fried pork, gleamed in Pablo’s
>Skin alone, which age had tucked into elephant-folds. He never
>remembered
>The questions he asked me. Instead, he’d sprinkle baby powder
>like ashes
>On the backs of our necks. This WWII General who never
>admitted defeat
>
>Even when diabetes swallowed Mamita’s left foot, whole.
>She never sacrificed her luxuries to her disease. So the sweet
>brown
>Coke confections sat in her blood and ate her from the inside.
>Pablo
>And Mommy and Tita Giselle pleading with Mamita, “don’t you
>remember
>What the Doctor said? Ano Kaba?” But spoiled, beautiful,
>light-
>Skinned Mamita, would rather turn to ash
>
>Then to deny herself what she deserved. A garden of ashes,
>A testament to bull-headedness. Mamita stood up to death on
>one good foot.
>Refused to listen to Mommy. Would not remember
>When to take her shots. Drinking down warm brown
>Branded liquid to bubble in her veins. No antidotes, just
>light
>Dancing on the rim of the glass. And Pablo
>
>With his hands clasped in prayer, on her deathbed. Pablo
>Crying at the crematorium. Mommy took pictures to remember
>The look on Mamita’s face before blood turned to ash.
>I don’t understand her motives, but the ways of brown
>Skinned people are funny. We stumble in the light
>& tango on tightropes with falling feet.


it's hard to watch those women w/ so much pride
that much feisty
that much kick in the veins
fold and fall in front of us
w/o even the slightest bit of regret in their form

*bless u and bless this

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

and papas

everyone encouraged

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel

i know im late but i didnt know whut i wanted to put here for so long...
______________________
soon after they married
blue realized, he was a liar
after they had three children
she knew she couldnt tell
when he was lying
he was a professional

a military man with a dark red face
& broad african nose
he could make anything sound good
poverty
absence
heartache
those notes bent easily inside of his mouth
singing the children outta their pain
magically, he would hum laughter over heartache
he was charming

but he couldnt charm her
she was naive
but not stupid

he started wearing long sleeve shirts
leaving early in the morning
coming home late at night
he would stumble in
drunk
breath smelling like hot trumpets
try to hold her
she would pull away

the southern heat pressed down on them
children running thru the house in their cotton dresses & tshirts
& still, he wore his white shirts long
blue washed & pressed & starched each one carefully on saturday mornings
while he wore them with sweat dripping down the back
big circles around his armpits
arent u hot? she would ask
u should take that off

she saw him naked
only in the dark

he seemed strange lately
distant
different
he carried that radio everywhere
his jazz music drowning out the sound of water rushing
while he shaved in the bathroom
their son liked to call him thru the door
"daddy whatchu doin in there"
& only those horns blaring back at him
no answers

she was worried
she had heard from some woman at church
about jazz musicians & that junk
but he was no musician
just a lonely military man with too much time on his hands
but she asked him anyway
& he laughed his answer in her face
but there was sumthing
about the way he turned around too quickly
sumthing, made her suspicious

blue told big nan about it
her auntie was wiser with these things
one sunday afternoon, while he was sleeping
big nan crept in & slipped that radio
right out from underneath his arm

she called blue into the bathroom
& the two of them stood over it
with a hand fulla tools
i bet he keeps it in here, she said
blue was worried
she didnt want her husband to think she didnt trust him
but she had to know the truth

big nan unscrewed the back of the radio
& as she lifted the panels
blue saw a collection of sordid needles,
a long rubber tie & a whole lotta junk

ive seen enough
she said quietly
& big nan returned the radio to the sleeping giant

she began planning her escape
stopped looking at him in the eye
stopped cooking all the foods he liked
stopped wearing her perfume
when he would try & put his heaviness on her
she would fight him
put her fists in his back if she had to

but one day,
right before she left
he laid a gun on the bedside table
& made her do it

she didnt want to
she protested
she screamed
she cried
but everytime she opened her mouth
he placed his long sleeved hands on that gun
& told her that this nite
was his

the child created that nite
doesnt belong to him
he says
sum other man
laid down with that woman
to make that child
aint no child of mine
he says

& she says
he doesnt want to claim
sumthing he stole
from sumone
he said that he loved
that child is his
as much as he is mine
she says

& that bedside table pistol born long sleeved child was born
to a running mother
naive & in search of refuge
that bedside table pistol born long sleeved child was born
to a military man
with a music box
& a need for release
______________________________
http://www.myspace.com/nonifashoni

i just want chu to know
how i feel
how i feel