Good Morning, it's me

Good morning it's me.
The sun seeping through the curtains' crack seduced me out of a soundless sleep.
So I guess I'll say good morning it's me:
Good morning it's me.

The fear of perpetual laziness has made me leave the warm embrace of bed while I elbow my way to a sitting state. And I can't even attempt to tip a toe to the door before my lazy legs trip me with a shock of pain to the floor.
Well morning has slapped me awake now, so I guess I'm wide awake now:
Good morning, it's me.

I'll strut my best style to suit this beautiful gold-pierced- indigo streaked-sky and when I speak I'll say:
Good morning world: it's me.
No heels today, cause I'll run today to keep up with you. And I'll catch up to you and tell myself that you are mine for the taking.
Good morning it's me.
And when I speak there will be no doubt about it, no fear about it, no trace of last day's tears about it. Just good morning, it's me. Hello world I'm ready to take you by storm, or meet the thunder that brews, waiting for me.

Well morning has caressed me to wake now, so I guess I'm wide awake now. And the indigo streak had subsided now and let the sunshine flood the sky now. And though I might get it tangled, twisted now, send me a package signed "life" now.
Cause I can tell it in the sky now, it's going to be a beautiful, bright,
Good morning, now:
It’s me.

"Woke Up After Death"

Woke up today on the right foot, all soul-song-singing and softly humming under my breath, despite the fact that my own breathing felt restricted by a cold that was making my head swell with throbbing pain. Woke up today happy,relatively. I had not forgotten the vision that struck me last night just as I was pulling the covers over my socked feet, the image of his mischievously smiling face. Nor had I forgotten the silent promise I had made to keep up with old friends. So today I woke up happy. Joyful, joyful, happy day-oh. And then everything changed. In the space of that oh, nothing was the same.

Nothing
is
the same
after...

the same after
Death.

Woke up this morning with this feeeling
in the pit of my stomach.

The memory of his full-toothed grin played in my mind as I hurried through my morning routine

Humdrum
Soothing like a down comforter
But nothing is the same after death.

Woke up today moaning and drowsy
Feeling lousy:
Shitty, really
but happy still...

until
I remembered his face

until
I read the caption:

"With great sadness"

And knew with an eerie conviction:

With great sadness
Jamie was gone.

Guilt told me off
Gave me a lashing
across
the
face

Where had my promise gone?

Such a slow case of epiphany
Dawning on me
that nothing:
Nothing
is the same after Death.

Today, Alive

Today you want to be alive
Today you want to feel
Pinpricks raining like hail from root to tip
You want to trip on chance
In a slow cadence
Altering action
Life-changing
F Ire igniting electricity flowing through your
Veins
Chains
Lifting from your mind
Emerging,finally,

Alive.

Today you want to be alive
You want to feel your heart pumping out, beating in
Like a hammer breathing life into a house.

Don’t want a rerun of yesterday
Tears born of fears
Sliding down your face,
Dripping through your nose
Making even your toes
Hot.

Today alive you want to be
Something
Stop feeling
Nothing
Stop thinking
Prescribed opinion
You want to get gumption
Today, alive.
Today you want to be.

Like the clouds are waiting,
Like the sky’s waking,
Like the dawn is breaking
Just for you.

Today you want to feel
Like a shooting star
Like a mountain peak

You want to take a peek
From the other side
Of the peeping hole
You want to see the world in its whole

Emerging, finally,
Alive.

Don’t want a rerun of yesterday
The same song skipping on the CD player
Everyday motions giving you motion
Sickness
Bitterness building like an abscess waiting to burst
Butterflies burning your chest
Now all you want is a chest full of treasures

Today you want to be alive
Bursting with joy and wonder
Won’t have to worry and wonder
Why.

Want to be
Today want to be
Alive.

Rhythm of the Valve Drum

"Hearts are deeper than the ocean- who knows their secrets?"Punjabi Proverb~


Something near my bed sounds to my ears like the beat of a heart. I wish I could put my finger on it and make it stop. Every time I move, wriggling under the covers to get my blood-drained feet warm, I hear it again. Closer each time, like maybe it’s coming from my bedside table where the lamp and glass candleholders sometimes rattle under gravity. So I steady my hand against the wood and listen for the noise. For a split second it’s gone, but it’s quick to come back faint yet certain in the dark of the room. Like the thud of a heart I think. So regular. Every time I shift my weight, starting first with my hands and elbows, then letting my legs follow at will it is there to greet me. And now I think it’s coming from my creaking headboard. It grates on my nerves, like a loose bathroom tap, but yet the sound strikes me as that of a heart. Thudding. How odd. Is that really what a heart would sound like? Maybe only in my wild, crazy, furtive imagination; maybe only in the dark like this. Maybe…if I heard it one more time I could locate it, make it stop. The noise is blunt; the soft thud is what I’m looking for. I stop and strain my ear against the boundless walls of this night. The room looks so much bigger with daylight gone and everything I see, more threatening. And this sound...this sound there is nothing melodious about it yet I can stop thinking ‘Heart song, Heart song, Heart song…’ Just like a, just like a, just like a….heart. And just like that, picturing my booming heart in its chambers, I fall asleep knowing that tomorrow this piece will be born, Rhythm of the Valve Drum.

Pink-Palmed Black Hands

I fell upon the phrase not in the most unlikely places. After all her voice rings through these pages as cold and removed as the apartheid she writes of. And the phrase fits perfectly in the world she creates. Where Claudia and Harald, the disjointed couple operate in different spheres. Where Black and White meet only at the fateful moment of crisis and chaos. A world turned upside down by the unspeakable act of the only Son. He did it, no question in the writer’s cold, businesslike tone. Only the two parents question. He/she. The House Gun in his hands; this is the world I step in; this is the context in which I encounter the phrase: Pink-palmed Black hands. The way she writes it reminds me of the confusion my own used to raise in the questioning eyes of my whites friends. “How come” they used to say, “How come your palms are pink?” And for those who didn’t dare ask, I knew what the rest of the question was: “How come your palms are pink, but your skin BLACK?” Pink-Palmed Black hands that was the surprise that annoyed me. Such an unlikely combination it jumps off the page at me, leaving me surprisingly startled. I can’t seem to remember whose hands she was referring to, if it was Khulu’s hands or Motsamai’s. But I do remember staring at my own, for these hands are mine too. Pink-palmed Black hands. The beautiful alliteration belongs to me. Pink-Palmed, Pink- Palmed; Pink-Palmed Black hands.

“Sinon qui suis-je?”

Doucement souffle moi mon nom sinon qui suis-je?
Une, deux, trois fois dis-le-moi, sinon qui suis-je? Fais le passer de bouche à oreille et laisse le vent l'emporter et je serais celle que tu as nommée.

Annonce-le avec toute la fierté au monde sinon qui suis-je? Laisse-le résonner dans les cieux, résonner dans les cieux, vibrer contre les montagnes et les eaux; sinon, comment sauront-ils qui je suis?
Eh, comment sauront-ils qui je suis?

Souffle-moi mon nom sinon qui suis-je?
Dis-moi que je suis Reine, sinon qui suis-je? Dis-moi que je suis la Gracieuse sinon qui suis-je?
Une, deux, trois fois chuchote-le moi :

Dis-moi que je suis l'Amazonienne des forêts tropicales ou l'Aphrodite des déesses, souffle moi mon nom.
Dis-moi que je suis l’Enfant de Dieu, la Belle des Dunes de Pila ou la Servante d'Allah, souffle moi mon nom.

Tout doux...souffle-le moi,
Comme une bise dans le vent
Tout doux ... souffle-le moi qu'il dure contre les horloges du temps.

Une, deux, trois fois répète-le moi,
de ta bouche fais le passer, j'ai dis de ta bouche fais le passer. A mon oreille. Et encore, de ta bouche à mon oreille et je serais celle, je serais celle que tu as nommée.
Sinon: qui suis-je?

“My man”

I have been waiting for my man
Pacing for my man, primping for my man
Watching the clock and wondering where he is my man.

He won’t be a Knight; he won’t come with his white horse and sweep me off my feet.
He won’t be any kind of Mc Driver Dreamy or Steamy.
And he won’t be the stuff of fantasy.

I have been spying for my man
Eavesdropping for my man
Watching the door like I’m expecting him, my man.

And who says I should want a Clyde to my Bonnie, A Ken to my Barbie?
And who says I should be Charming on a Prince or waiting on a King?

I have been styling for my man
Changing faces for my man
Wondering what guise he’ll wear my man.

But who says I need a strapping Hero
And who says I would faint on a GQ Man?

Still I’m waiting for my man
Primping for my man
Wondering when will he take notice my man.

Ramblings of an Ambitious One

So I think I figured, I think I figured I think I figured out that I am scared. All my life I have had this dream, this vision-nothing like the DREAM, nothing like the vision MLK had for the American Nation. Nothing like the vision Rosa Parks had in mind when she refused, REFUSED to sit at the back of the bus.- But anyways, pardon the digression: I have had a dream, a simple vision to be a lawyer, a complex dream to be a lawyer. Simple because everybody should have a vision of what they want to become. Simple because everybody has the right to dream of something that can take them beyond their circumstances, beyond even the wildest expectations. Complex because the dream is so big that I have a fear in the pit of my stomach; a fear to step out in its light.

So I think I'm paralyzed. Paralyzed by my own fear of what the future may hold. Held back by my own bold, crazy, far-fetched expectations. For the past few months I feel I've been walking away from the ambiton, shying away from the one thing I have always wanted to acheive. Because it's there, so close that I could feel the anticipation of it-a knot of nerves in my stomach.

So I think I have worked out, worked that I am angry. At the thought I might be letting my dream slip away, selfishly. Stupidly. Out of a fear more crippling than my own disabling condition.

So I think I know that I am scared, but tell me, tell me how I am supposed to step into my version of success with my head held high and my confidence intact when the world outside my cocoon of family and friends is so wicked, so ignorant? Because I know, I know, I know-with all of the conviction in my being-that I do not want to let myself shrink away from my dream. I want to see myself live up to my own version of success, as defined and redefined by myself alone. And I might just baffle, stun myself with what I can acheive. Yes, I just might...but in the meantime whatever power is the Almighty, lend me your Strength for I have Mountains still to climb.

"Too Much Me For You"

Too much booty, too much lip too much me for you.
Too much chatter, too much blond
Too much me for you.
Too osée, too risquée; too much of me for you.
Too much me for you:

Too vixen, too coquette, too much "B" for you.
Too quiet, too posée, too much me for you.
Outspoken, soft-spoken, well-spoken- too much me for you.
Too much. Of me. For you.

Too lazy, too laissez-faire, too laisser-aller for you. Too self-centered, too much "me" time; too much too much for you.
Too much me for you.
Too indulging, too convenient, too much
Me for you.

Voice too high-pitched, too loud-mouth, too last-class for you.
Too gold-digging, self-guarding, self-serving for you.
Too weak, too clingy.
Too strong, too independent,
Too held together for you.
For you: too much me:for you.

Too high maintenance, too much on pitch, too high-end for you.
Too much Lady, too much Queen: too much me for you.
Too much educat-ion, convict-ion, power, passion
Too much me for you.
Too much backbone, back-talk, backlash
Too much me for you.
Too much me for you.
Too much. Of me. For you.
...much of me for you.
Too much. Of me. For you.
...much of me for you

DON'T

I don't want. Want to be:
I don't want to be your cookie-cutter cliché cutie;
I don't want to be your "OMG" brainless beauty.
Don't want to be your sweetie-pie, honeybun, Shorty, chick, Siamese soul-mate
I don't want to be. The next Cover Girl, I don't want to be. The next Elle Girl; It Girl.
I don't want to be Lindsay Lo or Britney; Paris or Hillary.
I don't want to model on top without a soul, without a soul purpose to inspire. Without a soul purpose to instigate an instant of fire for change.
I don't want, don't want, don't want to be:

Dismissed by you,
Owned by you,
Naive about you,
Torn by you.

I don't. Want to be. Don't want to be theorized, criticized, categorized, ostracized, analyzed, otherized.

I don't want, don't want, don't want you to:

Dominate me,
Obliterate me,
igNore me,
Trample on me.

I don't want to be molded, reminded of who I'm not. Don't want to be scolded, silenced, scarred, stuffed and stifled.

I don't want, don't want, don't want you to:
Define me,
Objectify me,
Normalize me,
Type-cast me

D
O
N
T
.

"Honey"

Don’t call me honey I hate its smell
Don’t call me honey I hate its taste
Don’t call me honey I hate the way hate the way it sticks hate the way it sticks to my fingers
Don’t call me honey
In that sweet way
In that sickly way
In that sickly sweet swooning way
Don’t call me honey I hate its scent
Too strong, too bold too nauseating
Don’t call me honey I hate its assault on my buds
Don’t call me honey it makes me gag
The way it dribbles out of your lips like a thin thread of spit from a child’s mouth
Don’t call me honey I hate your tone
That tone so fake so hypocrite
So thick with pretense so intense
Don’t call me honey it’s straight out of the hive
Too pure
Pure glucose
Pure pageant
Don’t call me honey with a nasal notch
Honey, don’t call me honey with that put-on.

"Flying with Wings of Steel"

When the night invites me to bed and sleep takes me to the land of dreams, I do not see myself with dis/ability.
When the sun succumbs to the starry sky and all the world is covered in quiet I can imagine that I am standing on steel.

I do not stumble in my dreams
I walk freely in my dreams
And my feet don’t trip themselves and neither do they hesitate.

I am flying with wings of steel.

No eyes stare me down in my dreams
And no labels case me in.
No lonely souls call me to God
And no cliques lock me out.

In my dreams I step out free,
Flying with wings of steel.

I don’t sit out the dance in my dreams
Cause my knees don’t buckle in my dreams
And my legs don’t drag and neither do they hesitate.

I am flying with wings of steel.

I don’t pick up Pity in my dreams
And I drop Fear off on the Highway.
Ignorant souls don’t come around like bees
And no fool calls my condition Malady.
In my dreams canes are only
Wings of Steel.

I don’t open doors like heavy burdens in my dreams
I don’t play Superwoman lifting my wheels over inaccessible sidewalks
And my balance does not betray me and neither do I hesitate.

I am flying with wings of steel.

I don’t collect Tears on a trail
And failure does not faze me in my dreams
Ignorant souls don’t avoid me like I’m Poison Ivy
And Jealousy does not sting me
Label my condition Malady.
In my dreams my canes are only Wings of Steel.

I am not a “she” or an “it” in my dreams
I am not a wonder in my dreams
I am not a miracle of medical ingenuity
No one stands with mouth agape and lips smiling and eyes glazed in pity because I dare to be Laughing. Because I dare to be Speaking, Living, Breathing. Because I dare to be. Normal.

I am flying with wings of steel.

I can’t drop my canes in mid-step
Cause the world would stop with a stumble
And I can’t claim a cure from the Almighty
Because He gave me the steel with which I stand.

I won’t make me over for your Ignorance, stranger
And I won’t counter your Fire with my Fear.
I won’t sell myself at a thousand when I am worth a millionTo satisfy your stupidity stranger
And neither will I hesitate
To stand on my steel.

Letter to a '231' Area Code

First of all let me say, this letter could have come out a number of ways. I never intended anger to overpower its overall message: anger is simply a hateful thing, a killer of the human soul. So I have tried instead to let the letter speak for itself. This is what has come out of me, out of the million artful ways I could have expressed it---There is so much more to say, so many memories to grip unto, so many questions to ask, so many wrongs to right, so many rights to recognize...There is hurt enough in the act of "leaving" to let it consume the heart. Yet, there is enough love, more than enough love to take the steps to take to fix this thing we all call the father-daughter relationship:

I still remember the far away sensation of biting into a green mango sprinkled with salt and how the salt used to sting my tongue as if a cut lay there, open. Oh, but how good and how unique the taste! Oh, what a surprise for the palate! Do you remember? Sometimes, the anger I feel toward you is just like a bitter mango, do you know? It rises out of me in moments when I cannot believe what you have done to this thing they call a father-daughter relationship. Simply turned your heel on it. Simply left, simply put. And what of us in this disruption? Your First Daughters and your Woman? We used to sit and wait for news of you from an ocean away and still we only get the benefit of a morning call from the other side of a 231 area code. Do you realize? It’s been 10 years now. Can you imagine? Ten years since we first dropped you off at the station and I think I knew from the way the sun sat in the sky, smiling upon us that day; I think I knew that this was a definite goodbye. Ten years later now, and the presentiment has proven true. Sadly true. Stark-white true, because I still have not heard your step in my ears, have not seen your walk back toward me. And I/we are still holding out-Hope.Ten years now. No- more I think. I think…How long? Please, tell me how long? What? You don’t know? What? You’re losing track? What? Too long now, too late now for anger and tears and resentment and grudges; too long now for anger still to be clawing at my insides as if on life support. Yes my anger is dying, disappearing, dissipating and in its place, what? I don’t know. Maybe freedom waits at the horizon, maybe peace sits beneath the clouds, waiting. I must remind myself that it’s been enough years for you not to find the girl you left when you come back because if you don’t believe in destiny, believe in this: We must hold out, hold out Hope. I will always remember the far away sensation of biting into a green mango sprinkled with salt and how the salt, upon contact with my mouth, made my tongue feel as if drops of hot pepper had rained on it. Was it pepper or my childish imagination? Can you taste it now? Oh, I hope the faint memory never fades from memory. Oh, I pray that the umbilical cord is never cut, away from you. Away from this Beautiful, Soulful Land they say we are all borne of: We are all Children of Africa. Are we? All? Do you know? I love my Mother for all that she is and all she has done. I love my Mother for all the belief she has placed in me, me the perfect example of an imperfect individuality. And I forgive you my Father; I forgive you for acting on the hope that the grass was greener in your Motherland. For leaving me/us. For forcing me/us to write to you, speak to you from the other side of a 231 area code. For we are your first born set of daughters and the bond of blood is thicker than water. I hope for you my father that we find each other again. Shall it be in real time? I hope for you/us that it shall be. I hope for you. I hope for you that we will look where we slipped and not where we fell in this thing they call a father-daughter relationship. Hope waits as impatiently as I do-on the other side of this boundary. Hope waits for us to mend our rupture, one timeless rip at a time. To Alpha Amadou my father, with Love in real time,Your Daughter.