lately, i've been multiple me
(though honestly, it's not really just lately)
the other ones, they are mischief
(and really, we are sides of one object)
we are not that different
(we use each other)
they are my excuse
and i am their way into the world
october 1989, that’s when mama explained that what they would teach us in school is wrong. what most schools will teach, is wrong. one of the reasons, you kept up with school is to get to the point where you could almost be in charge of your own education.
we were turning 8
our birthday almost always falls on this weekend
we had started 2nd grade, my little brother and sister had been born in May and we’d learned how to take care of babies.
we were a family of seven now. me and raf, jose, the kids, daddy and ma. there were also dobermans, an african grey parrot, cockatiels, finches, a fish tank with all kinds of fish, (my favorite the algae eaters that got right up on the glass), houseplants across the sills of all 4 large north-facing windows and the fire escape too. all of us, on the 2nd floor, 1 bedroom apartment #2C, on 101st in Spanish Harlem.
my elementary school on 110th, the Bilingual Bicultural Mini School, or BBMS, such great memories, but even there we learned about him as the “discoverer” of the new world.
it was something like, “you are Puerto Rican, so you are Black, Spanish, & Taino, there are almost no more Tainos at all because of him and his shit. he brought disease, deceit and eventually death. his horrors were violent but he is held on a pedestal still”.
when i recall this lesson i always thought how fucked up it was to learn this fucked up truth so young, the fact that it all happened in the first place, that this wouldn’t be the last processing this over the years, learning just how much more of our history is just like that.
so grateful to my mother for teaching us those hard lessons while we were young
upset, that thirty years later, I’m still compiling the same lessons to teach my children of someday.
i got moods
just like you
they smell of
contemplation and rain
a fog that dissipates
red purple yellow green
i got moods
just like you
this end, like all the others
shared between lovers
to be discovered
of a poem
Questions of identity
my gender can be hidden
so then can my culture?
fits in w/ a many lives theory
perhaps i was a white man once
This link will take you to Paul Sarne’s website. He is a talented human and great friend. We talked for the longest time about doing a blue & gold shoot. I can’t remember how it happened, but he gets me. Blue & Gold were my wedding colors, but have held significance for me as long as i can remember. All colors hold significance. The idea of perception of colors is intriguing as well. How death plays in with life is a constant topic of wonderment. So we brought this idea to life. I wrote a poem. Paul digested the poem and chose photos from the shoot for a complimentary aesthetic commentary. We hope you like it, but more importantly we hope it makes you feel something.
i couldn’t be put in a box if you tried
i’d set myself free with phoenix like pride
rise from the ashes
and untie the bow
clear the cache and go with the flow
there isn’t one anything
it has to be at least two
a rhythm a rhyme
a me that intrigues and understands you
but it’s more like multiples
fun with words instead of do what you’re toldables
i sing every song at the top of my lungs
remind myself I am strong; a core of the sun
yesterdays newspaper from comrades with love
a wondering no ordinary above rainbowed rivalries living on
a warm guns prayers
hungry fool from shoa-lin on rollerskates screaming sugar
the truth is
i decay better than you
that’s why you took my crown
it doesn’t matter what you know
my reign started long ago
i posture excellence
it does not matter what you see
this beauty is evident
it doesn’t matter how long you’re confused
your end is coming soon
a dream of death as
having killed with kindness
i am winning back my narrative
I love your hair-white people
- this shit’s a novelty
- instead of part of me
- you don’t know what i’m like
- you don’t want to know Tati
- you’re feeling offended
- that’s not how you meant it
- you were just trying to pay me a compliment
- i know what i look like
- i know i look good
- your perception is my intention
- and no, that’s not rude
- it’s to the point truth
- though it’s not all of you
- but this is my only space to be (real)
disclaimer – if you are my friend, and you are white, and you’ve said something like this to me, know that i (have to) go where the words take me, and i don’t mean you 🙂 because i can talk real with you when i need to. (no one reads this anyway).
disclaimer to myself – def. feel like i need to qualify that shit, and make it softer, but it’s not entirely genuine they way it is now, if you know, you know, if you doubt, seek the truth in that.
i love your hair-black people
when we were kids, we did dishes, we swept on sundays, my dad used to say “if it’s not wood, pick it up” when we cleaned/did chores, he’s always been hyperbolic, “when i say jump, you say how high?”, “farting isn’t funny, it’s a bodily function”, kneeling on bird seeds as punishment for what is a child’s eternity, the whole hands out and dog leashes thing… “if you ask me for one, and i have three, i’ll give you two” or something like that, a poorly remembered Haitian anecdote to illustrate the generosity of spirit that is inherent and expected, ((ethnic ethics)) “if you’re not doing it more than 100%, don’t do it at all” those last two not actually hyperbolic and really framed me. (the dog leash thing also pretty framing but that’s another piece all together) we had both parents, but we kids also took care of each other, and dri/ove each other crazy, we bathed each other, we looked out for one another, we were a central stoop on the block in our hood. my brother Jose told me something about how he loved my hair when i was maybe 6/7/8, i have to ask him, maybe i was even younger, but that’s the memory i always go back to when i think about how my shit should be, but so much shame came after that, it took me along while to unforget what is right. i am proud NOW. i have been PROUD before, but it comes in waves, so when it crests sometimes i’m sad.
…it’s loaded, it means i can’t really be a me in my own body, and what the hell does that really mean? i am searching for this answer among others…
again. this time in third rotation
revolving around a circular explanation
dizzying dreams never what they seem
still trying to make sense of creation
soy Tatiana Bruno
voy a ser el último
y la primera
cuando piensas en poesía y belleza
nací en el otoño
pero muero cada primavera
renacer del fuego viviendo en sueños
con mi pluma de oro
y mi corazon de acero
cantando mi vida para siempre
…like reality and time is experienced simultaneously as an individual moment and a collective of all past sadnesses…
overwhelming takes a visceral meaning
the soul is marked
so 14 hours feels like 3 years
a lifetime through my blood, cells, & bones
tears cried through the eyes and slurped up at the corner of the mouth
eighty-nine lifetimes beyond yours
generations of grief
listening to music to make it better
when he said we’re players on the stage i’d like to think he meant life is the play or the movie now
i am myself sure
whatever i think that means
everyday i put a costume on
and decide who the world will see
chiasmus life change
real life cos play
i want to be seen + instantly unconsciously loved
but i also want to walk around and make no sound observing like a ninja
everyday is how you will know my voice
how will i know what nuggets to hold onto, choose, use?
try to write it all down
i was meant to be a theme dreamed up and drank down bubbles in the throat mind swirling around
i am an experimental lady
my method is poetry
a song that sings on pages
how could it not be a conspiracy? the knowledge of one’s own body from one i mean i am not one with my body, sometimes two separate entities, sometimes three, mind, body, spirit – what happens when we solve for x? unlocked door epic what we would know eternity immortality encouraged persisted if i knew myself and we all knew ourselves as one MY HAND DOESN’T WANT ME TO WRITE i’ll get too close out of pens reach harmonies help me understand elucidate vibrant colors of death and dejavu creative journey mountains of darkness to overcome white peaks cold from here to home toward la la la momentus memory memorized clouds more sun without breaks red after red after red intrigued by which is more than just out of my grasp alluring distance music moments in between golden leaves falling blanketing pages fading green charred today expand color schemes up the hill (and on and on and on) designed not to see it all at the same time in tune then tears not even circular degrees of beauty and truth are overwhelming and the same multitudes multiples of me star of NYC glitter in the road glitter in the snow hawks assume the path i like to think of myself like that and i am. provoking
this realm is my experience of time vulnerabilities exposed: what do i want to learn what do i need to unlearn i doubt myself i doubt most everything all the time your why in my life less music i believe you are my hummingbird personal jesus to be less selfish still
no matter how one you become you must always return to the people; know that you ARE ONE; that is the TRUTH; they need you.-lake waves and spirals left to write
what we see is all of time happening
people are difficult
i have a question
we can only understand when we listen
returning time to always
toward tide, sunset truth
it’s better if you know
i’ve never been one to fit into one category
i’ve always been one who appreciates the mystery of story
the multiplicity of creation
etymology invigorates me
where it came from never as interesting as where it is going
yet no sacrificing of the forest for the trees
a sense of self as constantly in question as affirmative identity
i know who i am this time
the rhythm and the rhyme
i read somewhere
or heard on a ted talk
but i am also of the mind that sleep is a great metaphor for the great distraction
when my siren wills me back to bed away from poetry
when my workjob has worn down the will in my bones
when the winter won’t come off
when the weight of memories is more memories
- to do lists
- ask why more
- sign papers for money you never see
with this conflict how do i know which is real?
i have learned to listen to my body
though even that sometimes feels like just the mcdonalds inevitably still in my colon from my childhood gaining sentience and telling me what to believe
- even though you have it better i have never wished to be white. despite the ease that comes with privilege i have risen wise in this strife
- how can i sing in a strange land? reggae asked. i confess, i listened to the wrong voices. 18 yrs ago i was 18. our trauma returns. a turning point. all the unsaid things.
- rage is not sustainable. always ends in tears. or violence like curdling vowels. even knowing that i scream.
- a collage of afterthoughts.
- those multiplous, all speaking in the middle of my mind, conversation bits, festively fluid like those paper dragons that are people in obvious costumes, but also from everywhere
- trying to unrevisionist my history
- a trillion years pass as one deep breath is taken, an immovable mountainous landscape, clouds ahead of a thawing lake, the sky looks like winter but the air smells like spring
- there’s just shadows over there changing in the light, mostly blue and gray, the sun hidden and exposed
- endless thoughts warmed again distracting from the passage of time
- no more running away for me i’m searching for our peace ignorance free bliss
- distance covered rapidly, philosophy for dummies
- life is an experiment i am always observing, reading, taking notes, noticing, drawing
judging folks so harshly and with such regularity
- i judge people
based on appearances SUPERFICIALLY; INITIALLY; INSTINCTIVELY
but then you get to know a person and determine their true character based on their actions
i have been wrong in my life & trusted people that hadn’t earned it truly
it’s a matter of living and learning from that life
everything must be questioned
reality as much as self
in the end the energy is equal and opposite
the lessons are the same
constant if you can listen
live with honor and integrity
compassion and humility
if you have three, you will give two when asked for one
the afternoon will reward you with the perfect bit of sun
trust in the seasons
move back toward reason
i can feel it in my bones
There are things I never bothered to tell anyone because I know no one gives a shit, but something changed last night and I realize that I give a shit and I have a voice and I am a force of power and it’s time to talk and I’ve written for readers but I started writing for myself again.
I am one of the lucky ones
…outstretched arms hit with dog leashes; shit i tried to forget about, negative, don’t get caught up on childhood, but if i don’t deal what kind of mother will I be? and i think that’s what happened yesterday…
this third beginning, that feeling i’ve always felt of needing to fix it all, needing it all to be okay to a certain extent, balanced. i still feel it even though i know it’s not my responsibility. this path smells like destiny.
*wearing nothing but a green bandana and a cloud of smoke. everything that is, always was, and ever will be. I believe moments are all of time.
sighs and slammed doors so much time wasted
the fear is the same now as it was then too, frozen, unmotivated, scared
so much was no choice of mine good and bad decisions
reevaluating my circumstances will never stop.
my happiness, untethered; i will do what i want, dress like i want…too weak then to help, still selfish and running away, pushed below the surface, that suffocating darkness, breathless underwater, deeply sad and unknowing.
the color ripped from the pages falling down the stairs to undo it and when i’m dead you’ll see me arranged in my things from when i was 17, 12, or 22. i listened to a bold iridescent gold, let it speak to me, autocorrect for God. Hear my mother call me a princess and I believe I will be a queen. my sitting mind races.
credit to Eben on Soundcloud for inspiration 😍 I gotta figure out the rest/ how to lay mystics on the track
Angry. Sad. Irrational. Fatigued. In pain. Stressed. Sad again. Human. Lonely. Confused. Depressed. Upset. Annoyed. Ashamed. Pathetic. Desperate. Negative. ANGRY. Irritable. Hormonal. Questioning. Anti-existence. Existential. Hurt. Insensitive. Selfish. Loud. Proud. Me. Wreck less. Anxious. Frightened.. Detached. Strong. Wrecked. Ruined. Complex. Simple. Incomplete. Done. Deep. Remorseful. Hopeless. Hopeful. Conflicted. Shattered. Had a bad dream. Woke up mad. Nothing in my real life made it better. I can make it better.
We’ve been talking about how we’ll raise our future kids. He doesn’t want to Lie to them; no Santa, no Easter Bunny, no Tooth Fairy, no Columbus Day, no bullshit. He wants to home school, because we have no idea what they’re teaching kids in school these days. We know what we learned, and how much we were misled from the Whole truth by our text books. Montessori we can agree on. He’s convincing me. Our kids will be Mixed. (cursed even) They may be born in the US or Canada but they will be brown and white. Puerto Rican, Haitian, multi-European via Toronto & NYC…When they are here, their lives will be difficult, because they are here. The [current] racial climate is scary. He remembers being a child in Toronto and having friends of all types & being popular. I cherish the diversity of my NYC youth. That was the 80’s. I never understood (took me a while to comprehend) how difficult it must have been for my father to be a man of color bringing us up in a world that was going to judge us based on the color of our skin. It didn’t matter that he knew how smart and talented we were, we would have to work twice as hard as those around us to be different, four times as hard to be seen in a positive light, special yes, but not an exception, not articulate, or one of the good ones but talented and nuanced
((that will never come…) maybe only among my people (but who are my people?))
…the challenges for my mother, being a smart woman and therefore being aware of the limitations set for her despite what we know is potential and extreme capability. She is light skinned, so what some would call/argue white passing, hazel eyes but that shit is so passe people.
For real, enough with the colorism. Again with the mechanisms of upper echoloned folks to keep all us regular peoples constantly looking for reasons to see ourselves are different. I held on to my identity so tight I squeezed it into a new existence, I had held onto it so long I forgot what it was supposed to look like, I finally let it go. I have always known that I have always been myself. And if you lose the ability to hear that voice that you just used to not hear and live by, then it may take a very long time (20+years) to trust that voice again. But it is there if you can listen. Tied to culture, history, music, philosophy, art, witchcraft, writing, drawing, magic, voodoo, stars and spirits. What and who I am is exists within molecules, it is something and nothing, now and yesterday and tomorrow and never.
this is what i
5. understand in the depths of my soul
4. feel it in my fuckin’ bones
2. have learned
- have been taught
i am the same as those assholes. they know it a little and it scares the shit out of them. they don’t want me to know*, because I’ll become more powerful than them, so they just make us all believe we are different. Keep us from taking power, real power, people power. And when I say it, they will convince you I am evil, or kill me, they do not want to propogate this truth, they will snuff it out, it is not a means to their end.
*they think i don’t know. they may not know, it’s a pretty subconscious fear of the unknown…
I re-read it
I hate it
(try to find a way to keep it, keep a reference to remember what i don’t like, never touch the same river twice, history will not repeat itself)
Even if when I reread it, I hate it, I keep it. I reread it over and over and try to put to words what I dislike. I rewrite it. I write new things I’ll eventually re-write. I read. I get better. (Every day).
If life were as simple as strawberries, I would indulge until I hurt from it, but instead, I just hurt.
Words on words on words sprawled across the ribbons of my thoughts unfurling and compiling…too many good poems lost past the tip of my tongue. I tell myself to think of numbers and then dream. Not the dreams of lost teeth, or being late, or lost, or looking, or in a convertible driving fast and out of control, but almost anything else.
This left hand is mine now, but it is also the hand of my great grand aunt Fidelina.
She’ll be 107 in April, and I will never know enough about what being her was like.
There are too many stories that go untold, in my family and in this world. It is important to not only know but remember where you came from to inform where you are going. I didn’t know enough growing up and I’ve always felt I was in the middle because I was never one thing or the other, articulate & of color, into tostones and NOFX… There is a line I live on and on either side interests that define my personal culture. I want to tell my story in so many ways. It is a life relatable. A smile unbreakable. Awkward and honest are two words that come to mind. The story I want to tell with my body, a spitting image of the past, cannot be told without the telling of my family. The belonging to of which makes me who I think i am even before who I have become.
It’s raining. School closing announcements are starting and the police are saying do not drive. Tonight, the weather will turn to snow and ice. I am feeling a little alone again, just in that I’m back in the ethnic minority again kind of way.
Because VT is the whitest state in the country, they ask me (in that way) why did you move to Vermont? At least, I think they ask me in that way. I’m sure they don’t mean to, but they do. I’m sure I’m not making it up, but I might be. The doubt. I can’t help it here.
“For love”, I say. Every time. Because it wasn’t for diversity and you haven’t got the time to spend listening to me go on about issues of race, class, and ethnicity for they pertain to my past, present, and future as I identify as a Puerto Rican Haitian via NYC bisexual woman of color, and the greater implications of my struggle aligned with current racially charged and violent events. My self-image and public perception at stake. Today. Every day. My interracial relationship I do not take for granted. Though I do actively try not to think too hard about how if I was alive in my father’s generation, I wouldn’t have been allowed to eat at the same table in a restaurant with my fiancé.
Tomorrow is Monday. The day of Dr. Martin Luther King. And I am not surprised my thoughts have turned to race relations. Troubled because there is still so much more change to see, hopeful because I believe common ground can be reached through open, honest, secure, and humor filled conversation. I am a dreamer. My father said this to me when I was 8, but maybe he knew earlier. Always a dreamer. I miss New York City, I miss my family. I will help make Vermont understand me. And then, it will love me.
i was (writing) my bike in the rain again; i make promises to myself i do not keep in dreams.
a spokeswoman for people of color, for women, for twins, for older siblings, for english majors, for poets, for singers, for artists…
but no one is listening
the voice may be too white bred
unless i am angry or sad or passionate
and then i am on an island
because that’s where my blood is from
and you cannot handle that, you have no definition or point of reference for that
you don’t know what to do with me
depending who you are:
you want to fuck me, exploit me, befriend me, excite me, ignore me, forget me, regret me.
i want to write, dance, sing, drink, eat well, fuck, kiss, and fly.
i want sex at the end of everyday like a period at the end of a sentence, because it’s proper.
my name makes me the brown goddess of heaven’s angels
my soul makes me thousands of years old
my mind will make joy out of anger
my lips will tell a way you’ve never been told
you are seeing
my space to create,
the me i am not anymore
one of the people i waited on asked me
where i was in life.
i smiled, as i always do
(in this instance as a defense mechanism to hide my shock at a loaded, and somewhat personal question if i am to answer honestly)
and explained i was an English major and performance poet.
who loves food done right.
can i destroy you?
can i destroy you?
you don’t ask,
you just take.
you take lives
and make weight
on the shoulders of our world…
but, i ask.
can i destroy you?
so you stop destroying.
you are a
- coincidence of fate
- too little
- too slow
- too late
- not even a mild temptation
- a returned invitation
- a love i was happy to escape
a voice is harder to find than that needle in the haystack.
it’s smaller for starters, has the potential to be more dangerous when searched for with blind wild movements, and there’s no guarantee you’ll want the one you do find, and the whole time you’re wondering, am i looking in the right stack?
my voice changes everyday. it starts out deeper in the morning. i am thinking of the future and how my philosophy of life changes as often as my voice does. trembling with uncertainty.
by mid-day, i am confident, determined, unshakable. my voice is dignified, revitalized, coherent and unique. i am proud of my femininity, unashamed of my sexuality, made stronger by the conflict of my skin color.
by moonlight i am a dreamer without loyalties, an insatiable being that wants everything in one moment, unconvinced by reality, lured to the darkness in between otherwise. there is only what i want.
what i am really looking for is that second, that happens once every now and again, where it all feels right – my voices come together, there is truth in me that echoes through time – it is recognized by someone other than me, it can be written down and read, remembered.
or else, the voiceless moment exists forever, and that is not an option.
there’s always too much time passing between my writing. but thinking happens whether i want it to or not. i think about you and what you expect. sometimes i decide i don’t give a shit what you want, but ultimately i’ll feel guilty if i don’t deliver. vagueness is better than truth. details are too revealing. purpose is misleading. dreams are worth interpreting.
-i need to be in control.
– i’m looking for something/someone/somemany
-i’m vulnerable and selfish, but that’s all relative.
-i’m scared of the unknown, but especially of what i do know.
there was the one where i had a baby and a puppy.
or trying to convince some “tall, dark, and handsome” he wants to sleep with me.
or running away from violent people, scaling the side of a building, smashing someone’s head into concrete, feeling the most intense fear i’ve ever felt in a dream, like my anxiety in total darkness, where my imagination is too much for me to handle. but i can’t feel my actions, only sentiments. and why doesn’t my brain tell my unconscious that we are dreaming, so I can wake up instead of screaming
a scream i cannot hear, because i do not really make a sound, but it feels like i should be ripped from sleeping dreams and back into the waking one
i was afraid. what am i afraid of?
i write because i must. the same sense of urgency your bladder feels when you are just at the moment you’re pulling your pants down to pee. the idea hits and the notion – this must not be forgotten. there will be a time when this is a record of thought, a look into the psyche of one woman that is relative to all women. memory having her way. eventually with all people. that is the point. developing an unarguable sense of belonging and community. there can be more compassion than violence. i have never been one to argue against the necessity of and downright reality of yin and yang. it’s all here for some reason. in our lives and in our minds. i remember learning about collective unconscious in high school. it wasn’t in the classroom, though it was at school. we were sitting in the hallway of the Main Building, as many students did in between classes. i was one of those students who traveled in almost every circle, close friends with few, tight acquaintances with all. in this instance, an upper-classmen was talking about Jung. i think it was Adrien, his voice was confident but soft, curious and learned. the pool, i remember the pool. thinking of this as a well of knowledge that knew no limits of time and ego. in my dreams, i am swimming in it, understanding everyone, feeling pain, loss, anger, fear, and love. and again in college, when Robert Gross said there are 36 plots. at least, I’m pretty sure that’s what he said. and so my struggle has always been about how to say the same things over again in a new way. plot 37. the new everyman. every woman. me. every detail and vague comment all playing its part to similar uniqueness. that is how i will be cherished for my ethnicity and respected for my craft. i can save lives and change minds. my super hero powers of poetry and creativity. dreams childlike in nature. niavete a cover for hopelessness. memory having my way. then the discovery occurs, because the writing has happened. plot 37 is where I will be buried.
the robins are tweeting through the speakers, gus is eating bean and feta salad , the tall motorcyclists are waiting for their pork sandwiches. they just got their poutine, gus is actually his middle name. (credit card receipt tells all). the mom and son, (i’m presuming) are almost done with their meal. he is very tall and polite. she is blond, likes her squash, and has nice big bag. when they pay, he says mom, and i have made yet another correct assumption. the way the bearded one was waiting for someone: pacing in place, kept checking his phone, they might be an item, or beginning to be. i do wonder about people often. i just see so many of them everyday. oh the service industry. juxtaposed to obediently serve. when my faith is lost, i go back to family.
i’m having that moment again. i am thinking to myself. angry thoughts. bitter. annoyed. tired. i want to be talking aloud, instead of thinking silently with fervor. but i will say the wrong thing. wrong is better to use than always or never. in many cases. i am tired of sadness being a motivator to write. at least this sadness derived from the sick feeling in my stomach when playing humble while also fearful of a negative reaction. these feelings do not reconcile in my brain. i want to scream, but i’ve already seen the drama queen today, and that never looked good on me anyway. a shower sounds like a great idea.
it’s only been today. i can feel i am angry. but the energy is spent on that and can no longer pinpoint why with immediacy or accuracy.
i am a cynic today.
my father said, “you’ll grow out of that someday”.
he was referring to my being a “flower-child”, full of love, hope, naivete…
i never believed he would be right.
despite what other things he’s been right about.
i have forgotten, in essence, my dreams.
not in reality, but in execution.
though i have been selfish in many other ways,
furthering my immersed intellectual self is a song i put on pause.
when i play it again, there will be only that song and nothing else.
it is in bed when i feel i can be truthful, truly truthful, because i am also vulnerable.
he looks up flights from vermont to nyc. we will raise our family there. we make jokes. we make eye contact and i think to myself how much in love i am with this wonderful man. who sure, will piss me off sometimes, but damn, is a genuinely good person with a warm soul and he loves me back.
tomorrow will be another 12+hour day. have to remember to order wine, make menu changes, get stamps, get potatoes, take out recycling, send the rest of the schedules, do payroll, schedule a dr. appt for myself, get Saskatoon towed for repairs, get the laundry out of the dryer, feed the cats…
bedtime. the attempt at rest.
justice doesn’t exist today. no one has ordered our delicious chicken yet…but more importantly gz gets to go free?!? tears well up in my eyes just thinking of tm’s poor mama. knowing her boy didn’t do anything wrong except be there, and because he isn’t alive to tell the other side, we’re supposed to believe that gz felt his life in danger to the point where he kills someone and suffers little consequence…i do not believe that. i will not believe that. let’s see what happens if i see him on the street; he is a murderer after all, wouldn’t i fear for my life as a woman of color? he may think i’m a threat to him. there is so much reasonable doubt i am sick to my stomach with it. the wine spritzer i made isn’t working fast enough to help dull the sorrow of injustice. i am disappointed but not surprised at the verdict. I hope there can be some solace somehow for tm’s family and friends.
there is still too much racism & ignorance in our modern world. what can i do? we are trying to be food activists in a town that has an undercurrent of old-school blissful ignorance, oh yeah, and subtle segregation between race and class. everyday, i watch three times as many people go into arby’s or through their drive through than come to our place. there’s one older guy who eats there everyday. he walks like he’s already dead, but somehow his muscles can still get him to arby’s for “market fresh days of summer”. and people eat that shit up, literal shit, not figurative. CAFO meat has been found to have traces of fecal matter. but despite that, the mcdonald’s drive thru is always full and when we have no one in our farm-to-table eatery, sure enough, the arby’s lot next door is full.
it’s hard to make people care about themselves. basically, poverty is institutional and the government exploits the lack of education given to the poor. we learn in the public school system about what happened to found this country, but little attention is paid to current affairs. and even still the information is cleverly siphoned to omit anything that makes the US look like a racist, classist, elitist, government controlled society. but that is where my heart tells me we are at. i am living in a time where as a woman of color I have the venue to voice my opinions and write how i feel. but if i should make too much positive change or be too loud a voice, i may be assassinated or silenced in other ways.
right now, i have a bitter taste in my mouth. again, made only slightly better by the wine-soaked berries in my drink.
and who arrives to make my day better? doug r.
he gets chicken, and we talk about life.
also, i’m marrying anastasia and she’s going to let me touch her often and inappropriately in public. so today is looking up.
that’s sunday for now.
you said you wouldn’t kiss me
but that’s all i want now… and your phone number
not your fingers fitting themselves inside my jeans
or your thin lips on my neck
not that sip of bourbon
or the lights off
just a way to get in touch with you
to remind you what you touched.
that memory i don’t have of your lips on mine
i imagine it
taste you, slightly of cigarette.
in and out of reality,
your tired laugh reminds me of that song you sing
and i am there with you again
on that bed in the dark,
you’re on top,
warm, breathing, whispering.
i am wishing i had more to remember.
this makes me think of climax
our experiences weren’t (aren’t) common,
so how can our senses be the same?
if i died right this instant,
i would regret being annoyed.
but that moment just passed, and i am still pissed.
letter by letter.
is all you need.
i am my own impediments
i have altered that i thought was love,
bent on removing a mark fixed in time,
the tempest that shook us,
left us wandering without worth.
i am a fool, to more than time.
will i be happy when it comes for my rosy cheeks?
when youth is a but a memory visible only to me.
i cannot bear out the uncertainty, the tragedy that is my doom.
is there only my death to prove it?
i find answers when i write.
i am better at that than love.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
one of my favorite sonnets by Shakespeare #116
i try to think about what it means to me every time i re-read it or say it aloud. love is bigger than we are and the things that get in its way everyday? but it is a romantic notion – just love. not talking about the effect being in a relationship has on love. all together dismissing it, by saying it does not bend with the remover? Your love can be ever-fixed, but perhaps that still leaves room for being without the object of that love. For lack of better words, you can love someone, but maybe you don’t like them anymore. i have been in love again and again and still felt shaken by tempests of jealousy, memory, dreams, & stress. In the end, i intend, to be an example, a martyr to this sonnet, so i may be the star, bearing it out to the edge of doom that perhaps my worth be known.
a unique sound of time
whose beats come twice
forward in rhyme
across the tracks, steadily through tunnels
not yet reduced to rubble
the music is here
without passengers listening to it
a melody runs through it
they live in between
their motion is constant,
images figmented; still, commit
don’t be afraid.
until i am thirty years of magnificent
adrenaline my friend, carry me through to the end, of these first few days of our new restaurant!
it’s been a while. opening a restaurant is no small feat. and my feet are also not small. they are moving rapidly, toward the future of my small business. largely, we are fortunate to have so many wonderful patrons and friends! cheers and more cheers…mmmmm local food
Local Organic Basil that I picked myself last Monday in Victor at Mud Creek Farm
picture from earlier in the year, little silver linings everywhere that help push through the days
tomorrow, in three months, will be my thirtieth birthday…
that makes me want to feel sexier…
scared, anxious, curious.
my tits are still perky, thank you.
(my tatiana’s are still perky, thank you cassie)
i will ride my bike more; they key is being in shape.
feeling good has always been a priority, sometimes, to my detriment.
the night still turns dreams into insecurity and jealousy.
i wonder why i am more apt to keep feeling what i felt in dreams beyond what i know is real,
(i don’t really know what is real).
the pressure of this box, i will be too truthful. I will hear the box begging for me to just be me, pretend that i am only writing for me. the lie that must be told for truth to show itself…who do i want to be? i ask that question as if there is some role my own conception of me has to play in it all. or is the truth that a word said too many times loses meaning instead of reinforcing what’s intended; the question of being is always answered by the other. in my world always and never are not absolute, because nothing is.
a woman actually.
imagining a conversation with a mistake
brings truth from anger
she steps on concrete images
doubt? as uncertain as death and taxes.
a state of non-seperation
(division is the problem; the current situation)
a mutual relationship
temporally and spatially impossible
is also sought
as if to say “not where you are” but here
and then it stops and says ENOUGH
a tune to chew
attune to clarity
it is the pretending she hates.
is not everything a sign?fier
seasonal depression in the summertime?
If you took the time, to understand
What you don’t understand about me
I might just give it back to you, a – symmetry
Those seconds we lost in your mentality
Tilt my axis, too many tenths of a degree
Boiling up my bitch waters from the deep,
And you expect me to have control?
I will not be the kind of woman who stays quiet
While my own mind shouts
For change , for justice, for a tomorrow where equality isn’t cliché
Where I am not invisible after my time on the mic is done.
the link to my facebook identity
I started this blog to create a venue for my writing of poetry, non-fiction, creative-nonfiction, experimental, slam poetry, songs, ideas, and food writing…
i am forcing myself to be consistently creative, and innovative.
a venue for myself.
a me voice venue.
*my dad tried to keep us from saying yo when we were kids
i know why. i get it.
but it reminds me,
i am more than the symbol of these words and what you think they tell you about me and who i am
no one word could ever do that
no words anyone knows could ever do that
we are all just scratching at the meaning of things