Holy Motha Freakin Gosh

Anyone that would still vote for Trump should be thrown in an unmarked van, put in a small cage, infected with an airborne disease, have their rights stripped of them, have their safety and freedom repeatedly threatened, be called a rapist and a thief, while simultaneously being sexually assaulted and made fun of, be separated from their family for months, be put in an overcrowded classroom, shot with a semi automatic weapon, be put in a church, shot with a semi automatic weapon, be put at a concert, shot with a semi automatic weapon, be put in a Walmart, shot with a semi automatic weapon... Then have their lifeless body propped up for a photo with a can of Goya beans. Then, maybe, just maybe they'll get a sense of this man's real values, or at least the ones he'll continue to instate in this country. It is time for radical change. Fists up. Sitting naked in the streets. Singing to Marsha P. Walking back over the bridges built by John Lewis. Because BLACK. LIVES. MATTER. U

Have you ever had the thought, ‘If I were white, how different my experience would be. How much more opportunity I would’ve had. How much less stress and anxiety I might experience. How much more attention and validation I might’ve received. How much more money I might have made. How much more acceptance I might’ve felt. How much more ease with which I might’ve moved through the world without fear?’ Imagine that, an existence not governed by fear. And how not once would I have had to think about any of it. Because it would’ve just been there. Been a part of the truth. The air. There would be no space to move through because of the intrinsic ownership granted in the space in which I was, simply because I am. No guessing. No adjusting. Just fully taking up whole space wherever I went. So maybe this idea of white fragility, white questioning, white discomfort, white supremacy is actually good for all of us to experience and see. To have the switch flipped. For everyone to get even just a

The sound of an ice-cream truck, Down the hill at St. Nicholas and 135th, Harlem. I sit way up at the top,  Don't worry, Roomie, Far from anyone.  You're the only one I don't talk to,  Nowadays. Little dogs, Cloth masks, Like this is permanent or something. Someone asked me if I'd been writing, I said, I've thought about it. Even that felt like a lie. It's so beautiful and calm in the park, today. It feels untouchable. Sacred. References to the color green. Like that painting. A young man lays on a rock with his shirt off, Several feet away. He looks so peaceful. Quiet. Small. Is it important to mention his race? It's the way we tell stories in America. He looks so peaceful. Like the middle of Spring. Ahmaud was running.  Exercising two days just before his birthday. Just before Mother's Day. I can imagine running down a residential road in Georgia, It just sounds peaceful, Open. Feeling goo

Fourslashtenslashtwentytwenty I keep reaching out. And, today, feel further away from you than before. I can see you. I can hear you. I can even sorta feel you, Like a memory, Or a dream. You make me laugh, Which makes my upper back feel like a sob. Like wings will burst out of my shoulder blades. And the span and muscle of the feathers will knock over all the shit in my room.  The wind of the flapping will break the windows  And the cold air will swoop in like a song. Unable to not hear it, Not move to it. Music has been hard to listen to. Because, joy? The frequency from the speaker on my phone is becoming my least favorite thing and yet, the thing I am most dependent on, Even more than before. Instant oatmeal, 2 packs at once, A banana. “Because potassium raises your mood.” I am a hunter and a gatherer, Of information, Funny sentences, Mood stabilizers. Graphs and curves. Challenges, We’re all nominated. And time pe