Modern Goddess

You Move Me

Like the first time

I heard

Billie sing the blues,

and even though

I was too young

to know what the blues

really was,

I knew I would never be the same…

Yours hands on me

She uses words

When hands should speak,

when silence will do

when words should be few

when goosebumps on flesh

read like Braille

when words fail

just use your hands

on me…

I hate when people ask me about my love life…

Because honestly I just think of you.

And the fact that we aren’t together.

So where is the love?

Where is the life?

I used to think you were so flyyy

I used to think you were so fly

But now I see the strings

Of your angel wings

And know that you’re human like I…

I used to think you were so flyyy

I used to think you were so fly

But now I see the strings

Of your angel wings

And know that you’re human like I…

Holy matrimony

I am attempting to set my intellect and

my spirit up

on a blind date

Because they have seen each other

in passing,

made eyes on the busy streets

of my crowded mind,

but never

really

met.

And I think they would get along

if they got past their superficial

differences

and had a conversation

One that lasted

all night and

well into the morning,

where a new sun would rise on a budding love.

And they

would eventually

wed.

And Intellect would impregnate

Spirit with a child they would name

Free…

4 days

But who’s counting?

that is as pointless

as the naming of the stars.

And because friendship hates math.

So the sum of experiences

 between two people

 is not a sum.

It’s the fragments of moments

made whole with meaning.

It is pauses pregnant with passion,

giving birth to reckless nights

spent at the ocean’s alter.

Offering up prayers

disguised as kisses

and OMs

dressed as silence.

On Becoming…

Upon looking in the mirror I realized I was ugly. So fucking ugly. Not because it was true, but because I thought myself something elevated above the ugliness. Because I thought that ugliness wasn’t beautiful. And I so desperately wanted to be beautiful for you. I wanted to be everything you thought was beautiful. But what was beautiful to you was truth and I had yet to discover that. But here is my truth. I am fucking ugly. And when you’re not around I lie, cheat, steal, spit, whore around, hate, judge, shit, don’t shower, and mislead people into thinking that Isis is a goddess because I am damn near perfect. But I am not. It is just an outfit I wear. And those combat boots I wore today were just an attempt to feel strong and not because I am. Because today I felt weak and I needed some way to feel like I was standing firmly. When really I was swaying between hurt feelings and the attempt to hide them. And I will not edit this post once because I want this to be true. I want you to see me for the fucked up, ever evolving asshole that I am. And because it was so liberating to fart in front of you for the first time. Because I think it might have been the first time I wasn’t hiding behind who I wanted to be. And perhaps you would smell the stink of what had been decaying inside of me and not turn your face. But thats what I am trying to say, mostly to myself, that my shit does stink. It stinks just as much as pile of lies I have been constructing for years. And now that it is exposed to the bright, hot sun of truth, it can no longer be ignored.

On Coming Undone…

We sat cross legged like curb side prophets, smoking cigarettes and coming to terms with the shift in the atmosphere. Our planets had once been aligned, but were now moving out of time and into new galaxies in search of celestial truths. Truths found only in space and distance. I sat beside you and did what did not come naturally- I let you in. I let you put your filthy hands on my sullied soul and make of it what you would. I think I saw you shudder at what was revealed. That I am not the embodiment of truth. And I am not my higher self. And sometimes I fake it because I think that if I just wear that beautiful mask long enough there will be no difference between it and my actual face. And what is so wrong with that? What is the crime in projecting who it is I want to be and not the perpetual fuck up I actually am? So I try to maintain this confidence with you, even if it is contrived, because I want to believe it. And because there are so many times when I actually do. And because there are these miraculous moments of just being when we are the same room and I am my whole and broken self. And for once that is enough. Like that day at the museum when communication transcended language and touch. Like walking along the train tracks, finding wisdom in stones, trying not to trip because I did not want you to see me fall. Like the night we danced to Earth, Wind and Fire, allowing each element to take on meaning. Like ocean side revelries, poems laid at the alter of little known demigods, songs that undressed me under your stare, night drives because you couldn’t just walk away, 4 a.m. promises of picnics under overpasses. Like the ethereal feeling we had on the shoulder of that highway where you had pulled over just to experience the rush of the passing cars, because sometimes there needed to be pauses in order for movement to be felt. Like the coded languages deciphered from silence and the brutal honesty of touch. In the sarcophagus of moments like these lies the body of truth.

People think you’re crazy…

and its not that I hesitate to agree. Because I think you might be. I hope you are. Because the people around me are so sane and its boring me to death. I think you might be the kind of crazy they must have called reluctant saviors and fucked up artists who lived too recklessly. Or perhaps you are the kind of crazy that cares too often and too much about nothing and everything. I think you’re the kind of crazy that questions that questions and questions until answers can never stand on their own two feet again, not without the crutch of truth. And you’re crazy enough to think others should do the same. You are crazy enough to be beautiful and to define what that means by your own standards. You are crazy enough to love indiscriminately, indefinitely, intensely, selfishly and without regard to casualties. I don’t doubt there have been corpses in the wake of that sidewards glance you give ruthlessly to lovers, friends and strangers alike. You are the kind of crazy that keeps me dizzy and spinning trying to keep up with your shadow. And when I think about what it means that you’re here now I think you must have been sent to drive me crazy. Because that’s what you’re doing. And its lovely. I am grateful for every crazy moment spent just knowing you. I honestly hope I know you until the Universe decides our adventure has come to a close.

I thought you were the girl of my dreams…

and then I woke up.

Now that he is safely dead…

Now that he is safely dead
Let us praise him
build monuments to his glory
sing hosannas to his name.
Dead men make
such convenient heroes: They
cannot rise
to challenge the images
we would fashion from their lives.
And besides,
it is easier to build monuments
than to make a better world.

-Carl Wendell Hines

I thought there to be no better time to share this poem, which gave me chills upon hearing it, as this week saw the unveiling of a monument in our nation’s capitol dedicated to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the contributions he made in life and the legacy that lives on after his untimely death. This monument is historic in that it is the first built on Washington in honor of a person of color. And my first reaction to this is undoubtedly one of pride, of hope. However, the feeling that follows is one of anger and sadness. You see, there is irony in the fact this statue is erected at time when I believe if Dr. King were alive, he would weep openly at the state of our nation, of our world.

As a youth in school I recall we are taught about Dr. King in the month February, and only in this designated month do they gloss over King’s ideology, his impact, his teachings, his tireless effort for the liberation of all people. They tell us he was a peaceful man, who preached unity. They tell us that he gave speeches, lead marches, promoted nonviolence as a way to stand down the oppression our community faced. They tell us he was slain at the age of 39 by cowards who wanted to silence the voice that inspired a nation, a world to rise up and fight the systemic oppression of a people. But it is what they do not tell about Dr. King that we most needed to hear. They did not tell us that he was a man of confrontation. They did not tell us that before he was introduced to Ghandi’s teachings of nonviolence, he kept guns at his door. They did not tell us that he so strongly opposed the war that the government attempted to black mail him into committing suicide. They did not tell us that even his own people turned their backs on him because of this stand. They did not tell us that he was anti-imperialist, anti-colonialist and anti-capitalist. But more than all of this, they did not tell us that it was our obligation to take to take his place. They spoke of his dream and told us that we were already living it. The schools were no longer segrated. We had the right to vote and the opportunity to be elected. The nightly news no longer broadcasted images of black people being hosed down, chased by dogs, brutalized by policed, boycotting. marching, fighting. We had overcome, they told us. They lied. Like they always do.

It was not until I left the institution that I realized I was being institutionalized. It was not until I blocked my ears to their lies, that I realized the truth. It was a truth that was staring me in the face if I only took the time to look. And now that I am paying attention, I cannot help but be angry. There is a war being waged, and I am not referring to the one in Iraq or the so called “war on terrorism”, which is little more than a front for greed and imperialist and capitalist pursuits. Here at home there is a war on the working and middle class, as the unemployment rate, which is far more disproportionate for people of color, continues to be at an all time high with no relief in sight. There is a war against the poor and struggling of this country. There is a war on education, as we see standardized testing replacing curiosity, learning and creativity. More and more passionate and qualified teachers either see their pay rates decrease or find themselves fired, schools underfunded, and so many children left behind by a policy which claims to do the opposite. There is a war on the basic rights to freedom of speech and information. There is a war on the civil liberties which were guaranteed by the Constitution. There is a war on the food that we eat, the air we breath, the water we drink. There is a war on every single individual who seeks to live a life free from the oppression that has seeped so far into our society, our way of life, that we no longer even recognize in its true form. And if we do not fight this, then we are ourselves are complicit. Audre Lorde said it best when she said, “your silence will not protect you.”

Now that Dr. King is dead, and those bastards in power feel safe from the threat of his voice, which caused them to tremble, which shook with such force that the entire nation was awakened from their slumber, they build in a statue in his honor. But what good is statue in honor of a man whose dreams was deferred? I do not think he would want his image emblazoned on a Washington where corruption, disenfranchisement, greed, racism, and oppression are as voracious and blatant as they were in his time. I do not think he would be fooled by the fact that our President is a black man, when it is tolerated that he is forced to produce his birth certificate, or called a tar baby by another elected official and that official was not immediately asked to step down. I do not think he would be pacified by the so called “progress” that we have made. I do not think he would be understanding to the fact that we have spent and continue to spend billions of dollars on unjust, unfounded and racist wars across the globe, while at home the poverty and joblessness only grows. I say again, he would weep. But more than that, he would challenge us to dissent, to speak out, to rebel against the system that keeps every single one of us oppressed.

Now that he is safely dead, it is our job to make damn sure that our oppressors do not feel safe. It is our obligation to make them fearful of us and what we will do if denied the our intrinsic rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It is our fucking job to question authority when it has become so abundantly clear that they do not hold our best interests. Let us hold them and ourselves accountable for the state of our country, our world and each other. We must stand tall on the shoulders of giants. Let us not honor him with monuments, but with our actions, our lives, our sacrifice for the sake of justice. He would not want a statue, he would want us to make change.