Friday, December 25, 2009

Deja Vu (what will you do)

video

Life,
is not linear,
Because life
is cyclical.
Life spins round and round.

Like a father spinning his son around in circles at the park.
staring into each other's eyes,
one nostalgic looking into the past,
the other anxiously looking towards what is to come.

Life has a way of cycling around,
Sometimes showing us memories,
Old photos and hand written letters,
dried flowers and mahogany hallmark cards,
life cycles back,
and at the same time flashing forward,

toward possible futures,
looking at houses where I could one day live,
picking out names that you would one day give,
so many options,
but you see the signs?

Call it glitches, visions,
Call it déjá vu,
what will you do when it comes back to you,
Call it glitches, visions,
Its déjá vu,
what will you do, what will you do?

Life continues to spin,
like water in whirlpool,
cleansing,
or like wind in a tornado,
destroying,
life continues to cycle,
What we do when it spirals back around,
is what makes it interesting.
What can make it unpredictable,
Do we notice the sign?

Call it glitches, visions,
Call it déjá vu,
what will you do when it comes back to you,
Call it glitches, visions,
Its déjá vu,
what will you do, what will you do?

Life comes back around,
It does, and it did, and it will again,
life will come back around.
Ask yourself, is it really that different from the first time, from next time, from this time?
Is life the same and you different,
Has life changed and you remained,

When it comes back around,
will you take paths you could have took?
will you shake the hands you could have shook?
will take that exit of the high way,
Or will you miss the signs again?

Every day is a new day
And every day is the same day.
A chance to do it all over again,
Or to do it all the same,

The choice is yours,
But do you to see the signs?

Call it glitches, visions,
Call it déjá vu,
what will you do when it comes back to you,
Call it glitches, visions,
Its déjá vu,
what will you do, what will you do?

Life does cycle back around,
It did, and it will again,
life will come back around.
I see the signs,
I see the cycles,

I see the paths,
I see my Saturn returning.
What will I do with it,
and what will it do for me?

What will I do when life cycles back around?
What will I do?

Monday, November 30, 2009

i know what i want

look,
I know what I want.
I've thought about it a lot.
Im not sure if what I want is what I need,
but,
I know what I want.
but,
I don't need anything.
in fact,
I am learning to live without what it is I want,
because its so hard to find what I want.
See somethings that i want are near impossible to find,
and they say the harder it is to find them,
then the better it is,
see,
it makes it more special,
but the difficulty in finding the impossible is so frustrating,
that sometimes I stop looking,
and it takes so long,
that sometimes I forget what it was that I wanted.
and sometimes it doesn't even matter if I find what I want,
because,
there's what I want and then,
there's when I want it.
because timing is everything,
and I keep the time,
and I want what I want when I want it.
so I may not even take what i want, if its not when I want it.
or I may feel like I don't want it anymore when I can get what I want.
and to be honest,
I might even want something else when I get what I want.
coz my wants and needs change,
because they're mine,
i get to say what it is want,
and I may not want it, if it calls into question I,
coz I am the one who wants it,
Me,
and I know what I want.
but,
will i ever get it?

her humility

Font sizeits her humility that hits me hardest,

a power so strong within her,

yet she knows not of it,

or she does know yet holds back,

from letting this light shine,

through and out of her body,

or she may be simply holding on,

to the last bit her normalcy,

before the spirits that she harbors break free,

and overtake her body.

i wish to be there when she lets go.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

i feel like writing poetry (again)

i wanna thank you,
coz,
i feel like writing poetry again,
and i thought that i didn't write poetry anymore,
i thought i left that phase of my life behind,
with mash games and middle school crushes,
i moved past poetry and all suchness,
past the rushes of blood,
past the flushes of cheeks,
past adolescent blushes,
yet i find myself red in face again,
and i find myself,
a little unable to express,
myself,
and its rare for me to be at a loss for words,
which is why i write,
or why i used to write,
so i could be so intentional in every word,
but im past poetry,
i don't do that no more.

no longer do i hold my journal up to my chest,
and let the warm fuzzys permeate through me,
like osmosis,
i know this may sound hypocritical,
considering im talking about not writing poetry in a poem,
but im still a poet,
a poet that doesn't write poetry,
because,
even my poetry imitates life,
its at best impressionistic and abstract,
almost cubist,
don't call me picasso,
but eyes have always been a little bigger than my stomach,
but my the eyes are always a little left of center,
and my Is are never dotted,
coz its never really been,
about me,
but will always be,
about you,
my poetry has always been a little super fantastic,
a little surreal,
thus,
life never quite lives up to my words,
and Im left,
let down, like after the credits roll in romantic comedy,
and you have to go back to your life where you laugh,
only so you don't have to cry at the lack of romance in it,
my poetry has always been a little too pure, too perfect,
so i stopped writing it,
perhaps around the same time, i stopped dreaming,
stopped hoping that i could have something to write about,
stopped hoping that what i wrote about,
would be there when i stopped writing,
i stopped hoping that what i described would endure,
i stopped writing poetry.

but there's gotta be some other therapeutic task for me,
some other way for me to make meaning of what i experience,
something else for me to do after i have met this person,
and all i want to do is sit down and dedicate a piece of page to her,
sit down and forever memorialize our meeting in a metaphor,
like a lunar eclipse,
sit down and write a poem about her,
but i can't do that,
coz i don't write poetry,
and even as my poetry now becomes self aware,
and i become conscious that i am indeed writing another poem,
i am still in denial,
lost in the nile that flows through my shakras,
and onto this page,
a page that i pretend doesn't exist,
a page that is not filled with sweet nothings,
coz there's nothing sweet about what i write about,
coz life don't come in 5 colors,
flavored in high fructose,
love don't taste like the rainbow,
but in my poetry love does have traces of lavender and vanilla,
raisins and molasses,
splashes of sweetness,
if only life did have the same taste
but it don't
so i decided not to write,
right?

but yet and still you make me wanna write again,
brush the dust of my composition notebook,
and put pen to page,
burn patchouli and sage,
u make me wanna stand on stage,
and declare it to as many people as can cram into a cramped space,
what they call art i call therapy,
what they call poetry i call a public courting,
a manifesto of emotion,
a 10 point platform in poetic form.
What I want?
That's simple.
You.
What I believe?
Well, I believe that our paths crossed for a reason,
and that may sound cliche,
it may be coincidental that our clicks probably click,
and its not inconsequential that our connection goes back,
farther than talking drums and teeth clicks,
and its this timeless energy that drew us together.
that drew me back to pen,
back scribbling words on receipts and envelopes,
when that's the only paper that i have within reach,

and,
i so desperately tried to leave that time behind,
i threw pens away and burned pages
said i would never do this again,
never return to a time,
when i could transfer this feeling in my chest,
into words and metaphors,
and let the butterflies that she gives me flutter between the pages of my poetry,
of her poetry,
because truth be told,
i am just the writer,
and its the movements she makes that are real poetry,
like a visual literary device,
something between, texture, tone and the overall feeling that reading poetry actually gives you.
she is the poetry, so maybe i am not really writing,
but merely reading what is written on the outer shell that is her aura,
simply interpreting the language of love that she speaks so fluently,
the language of the body,
that can't really be confined to the written word,
but i try my best,
even though i said i wouldn't,
i make an honest attempt,
coz i thought i was done writing poetry,
but here i am doing it again,
so it looks like things can change,
looks like i can still write,
as long as i have something to write about.
thank you for being that something.
thank you for bringing me back to poetry.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Soul Music - My Favorite Artists

I love soul music. always have. its speaks to me. perhaps it is my difficulty in expressing emotion externally. perhaps it speaks for me. its the music and the lyrics, usually sadder songs hit me harder. why is that? don't know for sure. I believe i am done with the saddest parts of my life and ready for happiness. but its the heartbroken, down and out, struggling music that moves me. if i could sing, i would always being singing. i do when i can, in the shower, in the car, walking listening to my ipod. i love to hum along too. there are so many artists and so many i don't know about. here's my list of artist i like. its growing all the time. here's my list of artist i like. its growing all the time.

Maxwell
Anthony Hamilton
Sade
Jill Scott
Van Hunt
Amel Larrieaux
Melanie Fionna
D'Angelo
Bilal
Alicia Keys
India Arie
Ledisi
Musiq
Chrisette Michelle
Dave Hollister
Eryka Badu
Floetry
Goapele
Raheem Devaughn
Martin Luther
Heather Headley
Leela James
Lyfe Jennings
Me'Shell Ndegéocello
Prince
Raphael Saadiq
Vivian Green
Jennifer Johns
Kindred
Sam Cooke
Nina Simone
Jazzyfatnastees
Corinne Bailey Rae
Dwele
Hil St. Soul

Friday, November 06, 2009

Reisiduals (of love)

sure,
I can ball up pages,
erase writing,
redecorate,
bathe,
empty frames,
clear out self space,
yet,
there is still a trace.

there is still the residuals.

the floating,
lingerings of love,
the things that remain,
the things that hang,
in the air,
a permanent scent,
mixed somehow into my covers,
blended between my sheets,
indented infinitely in the memory foam,
of my mattress that is my mind.

its these residuals,
these visuals,
of love,
a silhouette cast from candle light,
the eyes that are shine bright,
in the darkness of my shut eyes.
the face i see in a crowd,
images that I imagine,
mirages of marriage,
the lips that i can trace,
freehand,
in one continuous motion,
the essence of emotion,
the presence of the ever-present.

the residuals of love,
grooves in the street,
that still guide me,
to our our old house,
stains on the porch,
that remain,
creaks in the steps,
squeaks in the hinges,
each with their own memory,

the echos of love,
the sounds,
that superimpose themselves,
on the soundtrack of my life,
that bounce around in my ears,
like waves in seashells,
the scratches and skips on a favorite cd,
that keep me in a sentimental mood,
elegant like Ellington,
blue like Coltrane,
the things that remain.

the residuals.

the aftertaste of love,
vanilla, cinnamon and brown sugar,
the sweetness,
the tenderness of my tongue,
after sipping chamomile tea.
the stain of pomegranate juice on fingers,
the things the remain,
like leftovers of a meal,
that was never quite finished,
an extra place setting for dinner,
doubled portions,
old habits that are hard to break,
happiness is hard to fake,
it takes time for it to wear off,
to tear off the old layers,
to shed the tears.

perhaps it takes years,
to rid myself of these residuals.

the feeling of your hand in mine,
fingers interlocked,
tips playing tag,
palms pressed,
live lines elongated.
the warmth of your cheek on mine,
as we whispered secrets to each other at night.
as we made up our own language,
a language that is quickly dying,
words passed down,
like oral history,
the fruits that try to retain the essence of the roots,
the connection that dares to remain.

its these residuals,
that remain,
after the blame,
after the games.

these residuals of love,
that maintain,
that stay the same.

these residuals of love,
that remain,
when everything evaporates,
that have me waiting for the rain,
that have me watching the moon,
wax and wane,
wondering,
what shall I do with these residuals?
with what is left of love
the tastes,
the smells,
the sounds,
the touch,
the sights.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Prom Queen - circa summer 2002

Prom Queen

Ladies and Gentleman, Class of 2000. The moment you have all been waiting for, The votes are in, with a unanimous decision, the award for prom queen goes, to…

The spotlight creeps towards her, and she smiles with her style, far from wild, with the mind of the child, she aims to please, to appease and seize your complete attention, not to mention that a week before prom she is glancing in the mirror, balancing her aluminum foil crown, enhancing her gold gilded brown gown, if you only she could her pretty toes on the ground, and you know,

Shes never seen downtown, coz she would literally drown in the sea of sounds, shed wipe out in the waves of woe, and absolutely no team of coast guards could travel the amount of yards to bring her back here, coz she’s so outside the loop, so disconnected from circle, that to her, its more like a sphere, and I fear that she will never cut her way in, coz the only incision she needs bleeds and is a cerebral circumcision, to cut away all the unnecessary figurative flaps of flesh, that depreciate her mental state, that activate the ducts behind her eyes and make her cry, and so she sheds and so she sheds, and so she sheds so many shallow tears.

All a result of her years of conditioning, all from her parents choice in positioning, and who could blame them, they were just listening to the voice in their heads, they just wanted to get ahead, they wanted her life to start free from anger, free from the daily dangers of the streets, they found a place where she could surely sleep in peace, in security, so that when she reached the right maturity, she possessed a light of purity, ‘because out of sight out of mind’ right? Let me remind you that they were just coping, and hoping to alleviate their inner pity, they chose to deviate from the inner-city, now don’t go and get giddy, but I hope you appreciate being able to grow up in your 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom white picket fenced house, with 2.5 siblings, and a pool and a dog, with your 3rd eye blinded by fog,

and as I finish this 3 minute monologue of rage on stage, she flips through her catalogue, page by page, and picks out a pair of pretty pink pants. She decides to take a change, coz every1 knows, she seldomly goes in downtown’s direction, but theres an exception to every rule, and if you stare long enough, a reflection in every pool, so on Friday, following the student body elections at school, she gets a ride to the mall. So along with Garvus, she walks right up to the store, past the pack of picketing protestors, and shit, shes gotta be heartless, but she doesn’t’ event look twice at the huge pictures of a poor animals bloody carcass, in fact she arrogantly shoots right through the doors of Nieman Marcus, to go shopping, she figures a fur wrap would look good with her prom dress, and they say that we’re the mess, and while we’re out here tryin to get the cream, shes in her suburban home, living the Amerikan dream. Coz shes a prom queen, nah mean?

And ladies, It may be hard to believe, but brothers, Im sure you’ve seen, the type, who walks around with those jeans that are oh so tight, who strategically, places herself, directly in you sight, sitting up straight, smiling with those bright pearly whites, the type who laughs at all you jokes, never picks a fight, because don’t forget rule #1, that the customer is always right, and yah boy thinks its you she likes, but thats just noise, don’t believe the hype, don’t buy it, coz as soon as you ask her whats she’s doing tonite, shes smile and bask in her own delight. And look that’s her thong in your mouth, looks like you just took that bite, and your on her hook, and now shes got you sprung and shook, shes got you fantacizin now, in your head your goin insane, dancing in the rain, crying in pain, singing Whoaaa! And like Usher, you wish you could hit that high note, coz you got it bad,

But to snap back to reality, in her head, she just but a check mark by your name, 10 minutes ago, she played him just the same, its just a game and Im sorry hommie, but u’re just another vote, so try to cope, when she pulls on your rope, tightening the noose, coz shit wuts the use, you ask again and she’ll just make up another excuse,

But Im here to say that theres no need for further abuse, too late to offer up a truce, especially now coz Im bringing the chickens home to roost, and by the smells comin from my kitchen, from the bubbles in the water, from the sound of that sizzling, I believe that’s your goose cookin, coz baby in my book, you’re nothin more than good lookin. Im gonna get back to my mission to get this cream, my little piece of the socalled American dream, and in ten years, you’ll just be the semi same ole prom queen, with an overpriced dress that doesn’t fit anymore, a dusty crown, wilted flowers, a hangover, smeared makeup, an empty wine bottle, and a self esteem lower than the soles of your brand new shoes, and like sade says, should I say, It hurts like brand new shoes, coz that’s something you can relate to. Congratulations, you won. Show her what she’s won...

Friday, September 04, 2009

My Letter of Resignation

My Letter of Resignation

So I sit here,
On the 4th week of the month,
in my 3 piece suit,
tie tied,
shoes laced,
shaved face,
like a damn disgrace.
Im in the bosswomans office,
another regularly scheduled performance review,
The love few and far between,
It would seem that this would be another humbling experience,
Another series of yes’ms and no’ms and please don’t fire me,
But somethings different this time,
Im hearing jaguar wright in my head,
Im thinking and im singing
Shit,
Do you worst,
But make sure its your best,
Coz I can attest,
it’ll be the last time,

So she starts,
Stabs me straight in the heart,
And tell me that Im not meeting my employee expectations,
how unfortunate, says Im being insubordinate,
this is melarchy,
And im like since when was did this company have a hierarchy,
She clarifies that it was more like a matriarchy,
And at the core of the problem,
Was that I wasn’t smiling enough,
I dont come the company picnics,
Or participate in the secret santas,
And that im just not um, "in" to the company,
That the love isn’t there,
I look up at her,
I tell her
I’ve busted my ass to please you,
to appease this company,
to raise 4th quarter profits,
Never did I stop it,
Coz I had the company,
You,
I had us in mind,
All my time,
Late nights and early mornings,
weekends and holidays, usually with no pay,
I mean I gave you an inch and now you want a mile,
And for the record, Im a sprinter, not a long distance runner
But who ever said relationships were work,
was sugarcoating,
coz this medicine has not gone down,
not even with quintessential koolaid cup of sugar,
and I know its work,
but they should have said it was like
Gap Sweat Shop labor,
horrors of a maquiladora,
No bathroom breaks,
90 degree heat,
3 cents an hour,
union busting,
door shutting,
and cutting pay.

coz hey,
every day,
i clock in to commitment
and it feels like Im a 13 year old girl,
in Malaysia,
sewing swooches on sneakers,
just do it.

And its partly my fault,
I know I applied for this job,
Interviewed, dressed up,
played the part,
went through months of probation,
Prolonged the honeymoon period,
And was selected,
but they told me i would be respected,
told me there would be regular benefits,
told me I could work my way up to middle management,
That I would get 2 weeks of vacation each year,
you know they told me alot, when I was hired,
And they were some goddamn liars,
is it too much to ask for a little recognition?
What about a little appreciation?
How come I never get appraisal?
How bout my picture in the frame?
Over the water cooler in the staff lounge,
Why does my month of being the best employee,
Only last 3 weeks and on the 4th,
Like some kind of cycle,
On the 4th,
The floodgates open,
And the feelings
some
how
flow.
Like finally you’ve found all these flaws,
And gauze can’t stop the bleeding from this flesh wound,
coz this time i can't respond right.
I cant Play the good worker,
I need a break,
No not a sick day or a family emergency early release,,
And I know its only Tuesday,
And we just had a 3 day weekend,
but thats not the point,
I just can't take this shit anymore,

And sorry to disappoint you,
But this is it,
Final destination,
Consider this my letter of resignation,
My declaration of emancipation,
Because im done,
Maybe im not,
that one,
Maybe I don’t consider this fun,
maybe my spool is spun,
Ive been underpaid and over worked,
look, Ive been underlaid and over jerked,
And this love, this love, this feeling
That possed to come from above,
This love in the disguise of a one armed hug,
This love,
That you call worker’s comp,
Im not having it,
Coz its not compensatin shit,
Ive been emotionally injured,
And I quit,
Fuck a pink slip,
That’s all she writ,
All that I wrote,
And let me note,
That im not just some immigrant day laborer,
That you can bus in in the morning,
And bus out at nite, and bust upside the head,
When I don’t say “Aye loov chu” right,
I have rights,
And you don’t have me wrapped around your finger that tight
coz i know that despite me trying,
the things i do aren't on your checklist,
And if your checking it twice,
Can you at least wait until Christmas?
Which reminds me,
I always work over time during the holidays
And have I aint' never received a bonus,

i always ask for a raise,
A little more sun in my shade,
Coz its cold outside,
And im lookin for the months of may,
Hey bosswoman,
Though my great-great-grandmother was,
Im no slave.
And why do I have to shave every 3 days for that matter?
What?
my hair is unprofessional,
You say my good days are exceptional,
Get this straight, this employee is incredible,
Read the signs there more than legible,
You know what?
I should come back with some gasoline,
and burn this whole mafuckin place down,

Oh you gonna threaten to write me up,
Oh hell no!
No more documentation,
No more back door humiliation,
Lets make this a public spectacle,
Jerry Maguire style,
So who's coming with me?
who's coming with me?
Im taking people with me,
To the other side,
To a place where we have equal governance in our company,
A co-op if you will,
Where you will have a voice,
And with that a choice to do or do not,
Where we don’t follow a corporation manifesto,
Or MBA’s guide to Organizational Behavior,
We’ll use the oldschool barter system,
No more selling you soul for commercial products of love,
Now you will be able to trade actions for actions,
We will live off the land of love,
Trade goods for goods,
No more revenge and mistrust,
Appreciate each other for our strengths
Bear with ones weaknesses,
No more fairy tale ideals of business,
We will provide service.
Remember you heard this first from me,
Coz when it starts to hurt,
When your relationship starts to feel like work,
Its time to throw in your dress shirt,
Its time to acknowledge your self worth.

And don't think of firing me, coz im quitting,
I don’t even want any silly salary for severance,
Nor would I ever use your ass as a reference.

I slam the door and walk through the office,
On my way out,
I pass a few managers,
And im like,
Fuck you,
Fuck you,
Fuck you,
You’re cool,
And fuck the rest of you,
Im out!