8/2/13
Writing Against The Machine featuring Princess!
The other week, I spent some time talking about my poetry, slam, performance and other things writing with an old college friend. Check out the podcast on their blog, Writing Against The Machine, and let me know what you think!
7/27/13
the most powerful four letter word. . .
the first morning i slept alone
i looked in the mirror
noticed
you kissed a four-letter word under my bottom lip
i thought
the last time you pressed yours to mine we were saying goodbye
rather
you bid adieu to the me that loved you past myself
loved you
til pain felt the same as loving and living for you
noticed
the same four-letter word stamped on the inside of my lip
know i never spoke so
it must've branded itself through my teeth
came up but refused to go down or out
mirror images of what we both want but can't have
you used it like a machete
swung at my arms and my legs as i inched toward the door
this four-walled hand I've been dealt
like this
four-letter sentence I'm serving in the new prison of reality without you
amplifies every time i tie my shoes
close doors behind
echoes like creaks in the floorboard
my home is not supposed to be haunted by a word you never said to me inside it
a word you never said just
rom-com kissed me into believing
fucked me into needing
I wrestle with peace when I'm up and when I'm dreaming
I'm sorry i couldn't stop you from becoming what you always wanted to be
bittersweet tragedy
shakespearean in its legacy
allegory in its relevance
you exist as real as the shadows on my bedroom wall
as real as the four letters you footprinted on my face expecting me to give chase
when all i can do is stand in the middle of apartment
heart
head
present
future in my hands
past like ashes from the sage smudged to clear the way for you
maybe i shoulda opened the window for that smoke signal
or just branded you like you branded me
that way
STAY
could be something you'd have to taste
feel and look in the face
every morning you wake
7/20/13
snow shields
*from a workshop I did with Desiree Dallagiacomo
snow comforts
encompassing white and blue sky
arms taut in my jacket
this is what it feels like to be surrounded and alone
i wasn't scared
did not fear the white
longed to touch the blue
my arms don't move
my voice has no use
just time and snow cold
tall to protect
tall to guard
like my mother guards
she'll be back soon
i know this
I'm not scared
snow shields
the wind blows swirls
on my face and my feet
keeps company as I wait
white and blue smile
high
feels like hugs
we should hug
she is warm
snow comforts
encompassing white and blue sky
arms taut in my jacket
this is what it feels like to be surrounded and alone
i wasn't scared
did not fear the white
longed to touch the blue
my arms don't move
my voice has no use
just time and snow cold
tall to protect
tall to guard
like my mother guards
she'll be back soon
i know this
I'm not scared
snow shields
the wind blows swirls
on my face and my feet
keeps company as I wait
white and blue smile
high
feels like hugs
we should hug
she is warm
7/18/13
Tons of YouTube videos!
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
At Bill's Records in Dallas:
Lions and Trees
Snowflake
At the Battle of the Metroplex:
Snowflake
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
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