mollusk

watching.  his work-roughened hands.  doing.  a dry sketch.  of the woman's sleeping face ** a family of four.  arriving -  i have wondered.  what it would be like.  to have kids ** her hair.  in a messy bun.  suddenly I've grown tired.  of.  smiling at every passing guest

nothing so gay as an exotic dance or the turning of leaves on tired branches ** on the southern side an empty parking lot - i can  think of nothing but being in bed ** after dashing off a few anti-ghazals the cute one calls the front desk asking for my help ** my ol' man is insular... he's to himself and then  there's me searching for my skin ** after work enjoying a cigarette (though i don't smoke) and a small cup of vodka ** have i become  a drunk? these days it is Crown n' Coke that satisfy me ** tonight... i secretly hope  or not so secretly hope that i don't have to  greet another person ** these days  i am doing the work excavating  my own self for the authentic me **

at the mouth of the ocean, feet firmly in the sand. tongue of the water, surprisingly cool. it was in the ‘Waterless Month’ that mama died. after that, i slowly began to crawl out of my skin. the sound of another black body bending backwards, and breaking; yes breaking into seared minds.  it was the bright yellow zinnias that made me think of ‘Black Lives Matter’ painted on streets.  it is past the ‘Waterless Month’ and still some people don’t accept Racism as a thing or that Black Lives Matter.

crafting my last.   piece of poetry.   he and i.   sit on this phone.   he lightly snoring in my ear

not too much that can be said (though i am  never at a loss for words.) on tonight of all  nights. on my bed lie several poetry books and suddenly im in the mood to craft a few anti- ghazals (though id like to call mine blues ghazals in memory of Adrienne Rich). now i don’t fancy rhyming just as i don’t fancy the way he kisses me goodbye and hello...all tongue and wetness against the coolness of my cheeks. thats neither here nor  there. this motel world is a bit unsettling, id much rather be in a place where no one and everyone is aware of my name, but refers to me as ‘light honey’ or ‘brotha O.’ once home for work, i got into the  shadows of my bed, grabbed my chromebook and quickly crafted a few american sonnets for ‘black men who sometimes don’t ever walk into their true selves.’

we’ve sat on the phone in silence putting voice, and words to our pain. now you’re asleep. what use do i have for games of kickball and  chasing after babies when that aint my thang? Sunday mornin’s: up, fed, bathed, and dressed  we head to the praise-house for the next 2 hours. worked a 8 hr shift, got home, got naked and in bed. well into the night, watching Netflix; typing poems. does ‘unhappiness’ have a unique scent, or a scent at all?  or is it the rankness of despair that i'm confusing?

just a little after 4 am,  again pushin’ it with this staying up late thing.  he’s on the phone with me. he’s asleep. we’re thousands of miles from each other. i will not be canvasing anything other than a love that will be free of artificiality. sometimes, i think about my voice with feet jumping over walls and driving outdated shit up walls. tonight is balmy. tonight is starless. tonight...tonight… an aged woman enjoys dinner with the memory of her man.

in this world we walk on the roof of hell … each of us carries an upset in our stomachs. watched several of them bend back glass. under a blazing sky (always a blazing sky) i am lost. nothing tonight. the time turns to 1 am, and; i’m still awake. still searching for my roots. the open fissure where transparent fish float. tonight my blackness has a hum that resounds. and what of those of us who bow and scrape, before personages; before our own egos.

the last poem was a ghazal, a 'bastard' ghazal in the tradition of Adrienne Rich. According to Adrienne Rich, her ghazals utilize only 5 couplets; with each couplet being an autonomous whole; independent of the other one's. 

there is nothing in that wilderness where i wandered. too many years wearing different personas and wondering. the back of a summer wind under a blazing sky, all of we people surrounded by dense heat. across the nation the strong pitter-patter of black feet: on the winds, the phrase: ‘Black Lives DO matter.’ i cannot climb up any mountain. the man i dig, has been silent for over two days what seems like years. there’s a break in the fabric of reality.  there’a storm approaching that we haven’t seen yet.

I understand that everyone doesn’t think the same. I understand that everyone doesn’t have the same experiences, nor have we all grown up in the same spaces. I understand that you can be black and conservative just like you can be black and centrist/independent, and even black and liberal; what I cannot fathom is the number of black people that demonize the Black Lives Matter Movement. This makes absolutely no kind of sense to me. Didn’t any of your grandparents or great-grands, or great-great-great grands deal with overt/covert racism? when i see black people towing the white line of thought; that BLM is a homegrown terrorist organization, or that Donald J. Trump has done more for black liberation and edification; I have to pause, scratch my head and say: “Sweetness, are we even living in the same reality, the same here-and-now?” Is this a bad episode of the “Twilight Zone” or “Night of the Living Dead,” “Invasion of the Body Snatchers?” did this reality someone how cross with one of

“Racism is a structure, not an event.” -  Robin DiAngelo, White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism

I have a favor to ask of all of you. The next time someone, on social media or IRL, accuses you or points out aspects of your speech or your behavior that betray or may be interpreted as systemic racism, take it. Not let it bounce off you. Not absorb it until it dissolves to nothing in your minds. TAKE IT. Take the criticism of others who know more about things than you do with everything you have. Take it like a pill that’s hard to swallow. Assimilate it into your bones and your lungs. As your throat grows accustomed to swallowing it, let it breathe with you. Don’t throw it away. Don’t spit it out, no matter how bitter it may seem at first. These pills are there to make you better. They heal the wounds and destroy the poisons that live inside each and every one of us. It’s not just about how we were brought up, but how we chose to perpetuate that upbringing through our choices and our actions. To be clear, I am not claiming that all white people are racist, nor is it my intention to s

The work of historians, cultural anthropologists, and sociologists alike have shown us that racism shows up in far more places than in the hateful words of white supremacists. When it comes to education, housing opportunities, employment, treatment by public officials and law enforcement, fairness under the law, and more, white people have an advantage over every other race — and the system was designed with this inequality as an intended feature. This is what we call white privilege, and it is the product of systemic institutional racism that all white people benefit from. To be an ally is to work to deconstruct this racist system so that it can be recreated with equality finally as a central tenet.

“Those who commit the murders write the reports.” — Ida B. Wells (1862-1931), African-American journalist and activist, fierce opponent of lynching

I couldn’t care less about what those of ZERO melanin content are saying in my comment section. It will always be BLACK LIVES MATTER until my black life is valued just as much as my white counterparts. All lives cannot matter until BLACK LIVES MATTER . All lives can not matter until police officers and white men are held accountable for murdering unarmed black people and people of color! All lives can not matter until black people can walk into a hospital and receive the same adequate healthcare as white people. All lives can not matter when you’re shot in the street for trying to deesacalate your AUTISTIC patient. All lives can not matter when a black man can be jogging in his neighborhood but he somehow looks “suspicious” so two white men are allowed to get away with murder UNTIL video surfaced and sent social media into an uproar. All lives can not matter until the police officers that murdered Breonna Taylor are charged for murdering her in her own home on a no knock warrant fo

ain't no magic in healing. it's all about you. you stand at the center. you are the mender the one who puts your members back together again.

give it time. your hunger for the real 'you' will show up in it's own time.

it was in a journal that i learned how to write down all of my unevenness...

i dont want to be more war than man for lover or friend

i am not a cemetery a burial ground for your pain for your fears, burdens, failed magic, for your hardwords or the bodies youve drowned in. i am sacred. at the center of me a holy man walkin in color.

for a few years ive been branch, bramble, and discarded wood. been hard and irritated. been down and heavy... dark even. but now im coming into my season of flower work and soft petal talk. soon my fragrance will be pungent and healing.

soon you will dance with honeysuckle under a sugar moon and all will be fine

boy, unfold your tongue let your voice walk on sturdy legs and feet

home is the music off mama's tongue

i have my grandmother's coloring and my mother's heart honey, i am inhabited by praying women. after @BeingUpile words

frying tilapia my man hums an old song

passing food vendor pungent odor of red iwashi sardines

after sunset strolling the streets i crave sweet rice wine

in need of space spending time in *Yoshiwara with a '*nighthawk' *pleasure quarters *prostitute

it is too hard being the organic you when you constantly speak through someone else's mouth verbiage emotions and bearing. still being a shape-shifter shifting into any shape that is available.

lived with two appetites and mouths. i craved love but hungered for sex more. now one appetite demands attention and that is rarely love

gathered up stray pieces of wood. made a bonfire. sat before myself all of my hurts and traumas the pains and disappointments of ma and daddy between us and i told myself why we weren't made to be broke to be toxic and breath-stealing. i was made to give healing breath

on the cusp of my 39th birthday turned my ravenous mouth inward sat my appetite down and told it 'no.' explained that we'd no longer eat whatever, whenever; told it that from now on we'd eat wholesome things that would nourish the lining of my being.

Great Spirit please teach me how to call all of me all of my pieces back teach me how to 're-member' all of my pieces into a healthful whole.

i don't want to be more war than man for lover or friend

i committed a crime against myself. for long long years i spoke secondhand words out of other mouths. it's amazing what being 'anti-you' will do to your entirety.

like whispers off the back of snowflakes is the warmth of you finally arriving in the comfort of settling within your skin your self

let me tell you the story of the many lovers and the many lives who both kissed well and stroked my libido (my fault, i admit...) but aint had a stayin' bone in their bodies

tonight i digest that growing in my truth and letting God do God things is closing doors i opened in ignorance in haste driven by lust that i shouldn't have opened in the first place

Newspaper poetry columns called  shimbun kadan  have given numerous popular poets their start. They publish verse that is erotic and that is cute, that is about love, and that is about everyday life. Just don’t say that only the people who submit poems read them. The poetry in question is  tanka , a short form of poetry having 31 (5-7-5-7-7) syllabets which dates from the Meiji period (1868–1912) and differs from the traditional form of poetry called  waka  as showcased in the eighth-century  Man’yoshu  and other such poetry anthologies commissioned by the Emperor. Newspaper tanka are the avant-garde   “That’s a funny place for a mole,” so you said. And so it started.” Yagimoto Motomoto, Tokyo   Is the above really a tanka too? Many people these days might say, “Yes. So what?” It uses colloquial speech and quotation marks; and it ignores the 5-7-5-7-7 syllable formula of tanka composition. Compared to traditional tanka, it breaks the rules. Yet, it is now over thirty years since the re