Dark and fat with star and misery she could not swallow me into anonymity, hips swinging blacker than her Cosmos, smile brighter than Moons mighty, known and named Ancestors wrought my spine Soul onyx with the remnants of shooting stars aiming for purpose found in my stride Of black gumbo soiled through ivory incantations cross…
Originally posted on Skool Haze:
SkoolHaze is on that BEDA – Day 1 of 31 ============= What does that mean? BEDA means, Blog Every Day in August. I stole this whole concept from Evelyn of the Internets. She’s one of my long lost Internet cousins. You probably are too. Back in April she decided to…
Surely, no child should have to pay an additional cost–to the carceral state–for having the audacity to refuse to be murdered.
Can’t wait to see you all tonight in DC, for the final DC reading of my book Godless Circumcisions: A Recollecting & Re-membering of Blackness, Queerness & Flows of Survivance at the Potter’s House from 7-9pm. Info inserted after the jump.
Image via ammoland.com (titled “America’s Gun Culture, We Are America”) 10 shots ran through the body of Alva Braziel because gun rights don’t apply to black and blackened bodies in these United States unless Of course, we are speaking About and traveling the tunnels Bullets Cut through black flesh undeterred by myths of law and…
Some day we will go home, back to where we belong, back to that place we cannot articulate because human tongues have no memory of truth, of blissful vulnerability, of home where hatred is not as a common and expected as the morning dew, or mourning as routine as breathing, or lynching as common as air. Perhaps, home is where the heart is, or where it goes, when the body is no longer welcome and one’s nation is where hate is birthed, domiciled and groomed.
“I was a bloody, plastic, mess
they whispered tragedy over me,
but I was the closest thing
to God they’d ever seen –
my halo was fresh
woke up from death.”
The work is a tour de force if not for the sheer breadth of content, then for the refusal of its sweeping verse to comfort when comfort is not on the menu for the subjects at hand. It is more than unflinching—it unsettles, it bites, it scars, it lingers, and it loves, simultaneously in a language perfected by, common and accessible to those who have perfected the art of living while Black, BlaQueer or Queer….”
“i see now that revolution is not a destination, but a continuation. And that i’m blessed with this time right here, right now to share all that i have learned. My truth.”
“and the Orisha got me covered
while you scheming to planning
shoot up the movie theater and shoot up a church
just when the wounds was healing its beginning to hurt
shoot at a black man and shoot up a club
when you niggaz gone take the blinders off
enough is enough”
Pieces of my me,littered about this apartment, seemingly organized into piles of too little, too much and other offending categories. My me, there! Sprinkled about like dirty laundry, soiled to the point behind tide and rolled up as a public display of what we’re not going to do. My me, circumcised and misread, from Kenta…
“to be born
is to have ravished
with tepid consent.
Pay your debt
with your life.”