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. An...

Cold 3am chicken over stainless steel sink. + Columbus quesadilla. You take the stuffing. I'll mash the potato. You say tomato, Or take one more step and I'll blow your fucking brains out! “And that's where ketchup was started by your old Papy Joe.” He taught the Indians to slave. And the young girls, ta’ hoe. Just seed one more aisle, Just cut Pa one more rail. There's Charlies arriving. It's a labor half sale! We thank all the men who made this country great! They fondle each other and call it debate. With statues erect all the way 'cross the land. There is one thing now, we all understand. That Chris was a do-er. A real boy's man! And she is liar. (Yes, that sounds like a plan!) So wonder bread, mayonnaise with sliced cheese and fold. We stand men before women. And dumb Trumps the bold. Harlem, NYC.

What if. The only 2 shows that you had to audition for and knew you'd seriously be considered for were shows about, A.) The Civil War B.) 9-11 Because all the other shows that were being posted by casting and brokedown by agents were shows about families, families with struggles, families who triumph. Or quirky young adults who find themselves in awkward life situations but through the course of navigating those awkward situations find love with an unexpected person. Or a coming of age story, based on beloved novels that all just happen to be about... Asian People!!! Now what? But every six months another breakdown comes around again for, Civil War: an American Musical. Or, 9-11: an American Tragedy. And you think, 'Oh my God, this is it. There are multiple white people in that show. I have a chance! Maybe a swing spot at least.' And you sign up, You get there on time. You sing your heart out. They ask you to dance. 'Oh my God they ask...

A lot of half written poems. Because even the poetry isn't enough to keep me going.