So, lately a bunch of people have been taping me doing poems. So take a look!
At Bill's Records in Dallas:
Lions and Trees
Snowflake
At the Battle of the Metroplex:
Snowflake
7/18/13
7/15/13
The night of. . .
Late night. driving a young man home to the same neighborhood I used to call home. hearing the verdict and all the sadness and all the everything from a people desperate for justice. Watching this young man til the door of his home is safely closed and locked behind him. Seeing much of myself in him. His bright face bespectacled and glowing like the neon green shoelaces from his 16th birthday gifts. . . trying not to write a poem.
Hugging the boy I once watched grow. Now 5'6", 11 years of man-child and mirror image of his mother. Boy in his smile but man in his glare and knowing. All the track practice in the world don't outrun bullets and fear and systems we can no longer run away from. . . Trying not to write a poem.
Working my retail job, hoodie up, and reading the faces for the same sadness crying down my insides. The black man looking for chess books I nickname Deacon cause his scent reminds me of my father's church, though at 10 a.m. Sunday he is not. The white woman arguing her book price with fervor practiced in her bathroom. The man asking for a markdown on the book for his daughter, quiet and reserved. Balancing anger and sadness in routine salutations. . .trying not to write a poem.
Her voice repeats, "if i could write this shit in fire," and. I can't. If i could, if we could, its ashes would have spread seeds and outgrown these old world problems. Still. . . Trying not to write a poem because. Because. Actions speak.
Hugging the boy I once watched grow. Now 5'6", 11 years of man-child and mirror image of his mother. Boy in his smile but man in his glare and knowing. All the track practice in the world don't outrun bullets and fear and systems we can no longer run away from. . . Trying not to write a poem.
Working my retail job, hoodie up, and reading the faces for the same sadness crying down my insides. The black man looking for chess books I nickname Deacon cause his scent reminds me of my father's church, though at 10 a.m. Sunday he is not. The white woman arguing her book price with fervor practiced in her bathroom. The man asking for a markdown on the book for his daughter, quiet and reserved. Balancing anger and sadness in routine salutations. . .trying not to write a poem.
Her voice repeats, "if i could write this shit in fire," and. I can't. If i could, if we could, its ashes would have spread seeds and outgrown these old world problems. Still. . . Trying not to write a poem because. Because. Actions speak.
6/23/13
The whirlwind that was New Orleans and Southern Fried
I'm a child of conferences.
Every since I was in high school, I've been blessed to be able to attend conventions and spaces that feature people that are interested in the same type of things that I like, so getting to travel to New Orleans with my Dallas Poetry Slam teammates was destined to be an experience because I'm so in love with poetry right now. And hearing new voices saying courageous things in ridiculous ways already had me pretty hyped.
But Southern Fried wasn't just about poetry for me. It was also about New Orleans, and I almost feel like, because of the history and Hurricane Katrina, people should visit the city just to get a sense of the resilience that the residents had and continue to have.
That city is strong. And it works hard to stay on top.
The funny thing is, I can't even say that that's something I actively saw with the community. It's definitely something you can feel - driving on the super long bridge into town, your first look at the Superdome (which gave me equal parts infinite sadness and incredible hope), the smiles of the natives. New Orleans plays no games.
That said, Southern Fried introduced me to poets that are genuinely filled with love. I mean, overflowing. They love their poetry family. They love the words. They love just being around each other - not just their teammates - and it showed. It definitely made me understand that, if you let it be, poetry can be a nationwide (and yes, worldwide) community that'll embrace you with open arms. And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is a beautiful thing.
As a rookie national poet, which feels weird to say, I wanted to make sure I took in the opportunity to meet everyone I could. The friendly faces from WoWps definitely helped quell my anxiety. Poets who I had only made myself available to via the gushy compliments after bouts or workshops, came up to me with smiles, hugs and love. So that was cool. :)
Because of the purpose of the trip - it was still a competition - I didn't get a chance to go to any workshops, which really helps to establish relationships with people that you wouldn't otherwise meet. But thankfully, staying late for bouts that started after ours made for great networking opportunities, and we even met a team that welcomed us in enough for us to kick it on Bourbon Street with them. (Which, by the way is. . .you know what, nevermind. . .lol)
Speaking of people, my breakfast with *Luka was pretty kick ass, too.
The competition was amazing. As I've said, I'm not necessarily a slam poet. I write what's on my heart at the time, sometimes it has metaphors sometimes not, but I'm not all into the competition. So during our bouts and others, I just wanted to listen. I was able to do that and. . .man, listen. . .those poets were phenomenal. I'm still reeling over Team Treat Yo Self.
Watch this (hands down my favorite poem):
My team did well. We made it to finals, which was a blessing in and of itself, because we got to share a stage with real heavyweights like Denice Frohman, Dominique Christina, Ed Mabrey, G Yawazawa. Several had kind words to say about us, and I thank them for that. I got to perform Snowflake twice, and my teammate Simon Phoenix, who you should check out here because he's a great photographer and performer, consistently did awesome (he was with me in Taos also).
Overall, Southern Fried felt like going to a family reunion on your dad's side. You're not sure who everyone is, but you can feel they love you, and now you can't wait to have another reunion just to see all the faces again. So I will be going back. Greenville, SC 2014.
Every since I was in high school, I've been blessed to be able to attend conventions and spaces that feature people that are interested in the same type of things that I like, so getting to travel to New Orleans with my Dallas Poetry Slam teammates was destined to be an experience because I'm so in love with poetry right now. And hearing new voices saying courageous things in ridiculous ways already had me pretty hyped.
But Southern Fried wasn't just about poetry for me. It was also about New Orleans, and I almost feel like, because of the history and Hurricane Katrina, people should visit the city just to get a sense of the resilience that the residents had and continue to have.
That city is strong. And it works hard to stay on top.
The funny thing is, I can't even say that that's something I actively saw with the community. It's definitely something you can feel - driving on the super long bridge into town, your first look at the Superdome (which gave me equal parts infinite sadness and incredible hope), the smiles of the natives. New Orleans plays no games.
That said, Southern Fried introduced me to poets that are genuinely filled with love. I mean, overflowing. They love their poetry family. They love the words. They love just being around each other - not just their teammates - and it showed. It definitely made me understand that, if you let it be, poetry can be a nationwide (and yes, worldwide) community that'll embrace you with open arms. And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is a beautiful thing.
As a rookie national poet, which feels weird to say, I wanted to make sure I took in the opportunity to meet everyone I could. The friendly faces from WoWps definitely helped quell my anxiety. Poets who I had only made myself available to via the gushy compliments after bouts or workshops, came up to me with smiles, hugs and love. So that was cool. :)
Because of the purpose of the trip - it was still a competition - I didn't get a chance to go to any workshops, which really helps to establish relationships with people that you wouldn't otherwise meet. But thankfully, staying late for bouts that started after ours made for great networking opportunities, and we even met a team that welcomed us in enough for us to kick it on Bourbon Street with them. (Which, by the way is. . .you know what, nevermind. . .lol)
Speaking of people, my breakfast with *Luka was pretty kick ass, too.
The competition was amazing. As I've said, I'm not necessarily a slam poet. I write what's on my heart at the time, sometimes it has metaphors sometimes not, but I'm not all into the competition. So during our bouts and others, I just wanted to listen. I was able to do that and. . .man, listen. . .those poets were phenomenal. I'm still reeling over Team Treat Yo Self.
Watch this (hands down my favorite poem):
My team did well. We made it to finals, which was a blessing in and of itself, because we got to share a stage with real heavyweights like Denice Frohman, Dominique Christina, Ed Mabrey, G Yawazawa. Several had kind words to say about us, and I thank them for that. I got to perform Snowflake twice, and my teammate Simon Phoenix, who you should check out here because he's a great photographer and performer, consistently did awesome (he was with me in Taos also).
Overall, Southern Fried felt like going to a family reunion on your dad's side. You're not sure who everyone is, but you can feel they love you, and now you can't wait to have another reunion just to see all the faces again. So I will be going back. Greenville, SC 2014.
6/20/13
weapons
I carry my broken pieces in a shoulder bag
They jumble when I walk
Sharpen themselves inside my canvas to make machete of my edges
she wants to take them out and examine the shine
I say, " I never want to know what your blood looks like
so stop touching me."
I only touch
when I wanna feel progression
since I can't reform glass
I am better
when I see me sharper
but everyone wants to see me walk with these weapons in my shoulder bag
walk on these weapons in my shoulder bag
instead of putting myself together on the journey
people like broken pieces
one piece at a time
They jumble when I walk
Sharpen themselves inside my canvas to make machete of my edges
she wants to take them out and examine the shine
I say, " I never want to know what your blood looks like
so stop touching me."
I only touch
when I wanna feel progression
since I can't reform glass
I am better
when I see me sharper
but everyone wants to see me walk with these weapons in my shoulder bag
walk on these weapons in my shoulder bag
instead of putting myself together on the journey
people like broken pieces
one piece at a time
5/31/13
Mountains speak. . .
Of all the times I've ridden through the mountain country, the red dirt rock of New Mexico, looking for adventure outside my home state, I can't help but feel like I'm passing the adventure right there. The shrubs and trees that dot tall structures, the formations of sleek earth, hard and strong, call out to me. They'll wait for me to ready myself, they say. They've got nothing but time and my ancestors and spirits and angels are waiting to speak to me from atop those mountain peaks. There are stars for me to see. There are toxins waiting to run screaming from my body when I sweat and climb and push my body through that which I've never experienced. My English professors would call it a vision quest.I rarely miss them when I drive by. Even if I'm sleeping, the Most High wakes me up to see the terrain that whispers to me. It made sense that Stephen was the soundtrack to this ride. He sounds so much like his father. He sings so much discovery and redemption with the percussion that feels like what Bob would have been. Him, combined with the view, calms me like home. I want to sleep under the cloudless sky. Conversations with the moon. Melt into the rock and feed the cacti with the water of my spirit. When I look out at the passing peace, I tell it I'm coming. I won't forget. I picture the adventure, the sun rays smiling at me as I walk lone, scale land my feet will want to know better. I'll open my mouth so my dreams and fears and silent prayers can float out untethered. I will receive the lessons. Growth. Strength. The ancestors and spirits and angels will smile at my arrival. They've been waiting for me, they'll say. We are glad you could make it.
5/16/13
An Apology to My Ribs
Little girls grow and wait for you to fade into the background of new frontiers
Puberty hits and
Breasts steal the spotlight you've waited to hold since birth
I'm sorry for that
You are the closest things to my heart I could touch and yet
I shied away from you because the world has made you a symbol of what's wrong in America
Starving for attention
Starving to be a beautiful we never were
We were just beautiful
To each other
The lovers say
You don't belong on the outer frame of my silhouette
It hurt when they would look through you as if you were not important
My ribs
Are the reason I can stick my chest out so far
The complement to my backbone
I don't downplay you as the reason I stand
I'm sorry for all the times I blamed you for my broken heart
For the people who I thought you let in too early
You are no gate
Their kisses were not keys to my sternum
You did not fly open
I thank God you did not fly open
When it felt like they were ripping me to shreds
My soul doesn't feel like a caged bird when I run my fingers across you
I feel blessed to be able to feel the steel in my body armor
I'm sorry that sometimes I walk like I'm not used to your breast plate weight
Adam gave a rib to be whole and I've
Taken in enough evenings alone to start believing that you
Solid bone
Complete me like no other
Thank you for being physical, visible proof of how strong I am
I heart you inside
And out
Puberty hits and
Breasts steal the spotlight you've waited to hold since birth
I'm sorry for that
You are the closest things to my heart I could touch and yet
I shied away from you because the world has made you a symbol of what's wrong in America
Starving for attention
Starving to be a beautiful we never were
We were just beautiful
To each other
The lovers say
You don't belong on the outer frame of my silhouette
It hurt when they would look through you as if you were not important
My ribs
Are the reason I can stick my chest out so far
The complement to my backbone
I don't downplay you as the reason I stand
I'm sorry for all the times I blamed you for my broken heart
For the people who I thought you let in too early
You are no gate
Their kisses were not keys to my sternum
You did not fly open
I thank God you did not fly open
When it felt like they were ripping me to shreds
My soul doesn't feel like a caged bird when I run my fingers across you
I feel blessed to be able to feel the steel in my body armor
I'm sorry that sometimes I walk like I'm not used to your breast plate weight
Adam gave a rib to be whole and I've
Taken in enough evenings alone to start believing that you
Solid bone
Complete me like no other
Thank you for being physical, visible proof of how strong I am
I heart you inside
And out
4/30/13
Find me on SoundCloud!
And, I've launched a SoundCloud page where you can listen to tracks off Not A Storybook <3 .="" always="" as="" contact="" copies="" directly.="" downloading="" for="" me="" or="" p="" physical="">
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