City Ride

Now Playing: Ain't No Thang – Outkast
Location: Rosa Parks Transit Center

City Ride

Detroit is so hard, and not just in the aspect of hard times, but it's core is like the steel once used to manufacture it's American autos. Something about this place is amazingly unbreakable. In the face of some of the most furious social, political and financial upheavals it has a throbbing pulse felt in the pissed stained concrete, beneath the worn soles of the unemployed, and the crispy white kicks of those dedicated to dressing fresh in the face of poverty. I always describe the connection between this city and it's natives as love hate. To know Tha D is to both adore and loath it. There is so much to treasure: the history, the long striving communities, the music, art, culture and food and then there is the disparity and ruin, political corruption, and soaring obstacles. Still, Detroit like a broken winged phoenix erupts in fires beyond Devil's night and smolders into ashes, always waiting to catch fire again.

The most picturesque intake of my city can be found while riding the bus from East to West, to the fringes of the suburbs and back downtown. The most colorful routes I have found are Woodward, Dexter, Grand River and Linwood. I have witnessed everything from a demented revolutionary to a spazzed out brother covered in blood ready to box everyone on the bus. Sometimes exchanges range from community furor over the latest unjust policies from our incompetent mayoral administration and foolish city council to just plain ignorant confrontations between irate riders and disgruntled bus drivers. On the best days there is the cool brother bus driver that passes out fist pounds and smiles with an infectious “Booyah!” or the bus driver who waves off you paying bus fare when the fare box is working! When all your bus rides and transfers happen on time then the day becomes pretty freaking magical.

In moments like this you appreciate the funky trick Detroit is. Ghetto as hell, house parties, and block barbecues. Country as your Alabama, Georgia and Mississippi roots and the Upsouth drawl of our words, . Slick as gators and the intricate hairstyles artfully coiffed in salons across the city. Eclectic as indy rock, organic gardens, hippies in Cass Corridor and street festivals happening in cool neighborhoods. Sophisticated as art museums, wine tasting, independent films and literary circles. Broken as the lines in the faces of the dejected and struggling. Spiritual as saints and Muslims gathering in churches and mosques with sincere prayers for the future of our city. Detroit is not just one thing, but all of these things.

Take a ride through my city and get to know the real Detroit.

Closing track: Hard Times - Ludacris

P.A.D. #5: Journey Back Home

I.



He smiles at me in the dark

as if well pleased with his conquest.

Naked, intertwined in moonlight

Original Black to American brown.

He tells me stories of places

I only dream about.

Africa lives in his tongue.

His mouth tastes sweet.

Each kiss is a path to the unknown.

We find our way home in the fit of our bodies.

As if the nap and curl of my locks tangled between his fingers

Reminds him of the clinging Earth in Nigeria.

I trace maps of longing for the Motherland down his spine.

Embrace him like the Atlantic.

Until memories of the Middle Passage are dissolved

in our coming.



II.



I am discovering what it means to be an American girl

through his eyes.

This life I have taken for granted.

These blessings I give no daily thanks for.

The freedom I disdain, and clamor about political injustice.

Pale in comparison to corruption, wars, slain heroes and the

struggle of our people across the water.

Still he smiles, flashing ivory, as if invincible.

My heart sinks into despair.

Surrendering my romantic vision of Africa, against his living testament.

He reminds me there is still beauty in the land of my ancestors.

Our people are survivors on both shores.

We speak hope, and wrap love into hard words, wanting so much more

for our kindred.



III.



72 hours ago

We did not exist to one another.

God shines on the unsuspecting.

I have come to appreciate Sundays

in a new way.

Yearning to find a piece of myself

in the lilt of his Yoruba accent.

Discover the history hidden

in the glide of his hands down my hips.

I am no mystery to myself

when reflected in his eyes.

There is comfort in the curve

of his arm.

Holding my heart in my palms.

I wonder if this is what it feels like to find

Home.

P.A.D. #4: A Place Called Nowhere

I am the queen of no destination relationships

Lingering long after good byes should be spoken

Logic does not dictate my course of action

I am a crash course of follies

The princess of impracticality

Skipping pebbles like possibilities

and random lovers.


If the moment feels right

I am along for the ride

Until metal crunches into burning corpses

I weep in the ashes

Already knowing the atrocity that awaits

My inability to be alone.


Foolish to be such a smart girl.

Grown woman with the need

to spontaneously combust her heart

into crimson confetti.

Repeatedly picking up the pieces like record scratches.

Text book definition of insanity.


One day I will honor myself

with more than this martyrdom.

Stop sacrificing in the moment

with no long term reward.

Love responsibly instead of recklessly.

Treat my heart as blue chip stock

investment.

Allowing no money changers in my temple

Unless your portfolio has proven you

worthy beyond all reproof.

P.A.D. #3: A Queen's Abdication

I have become impatient

with being your lady-in-waiting.

This love is no royal court.

I find your throne unoccupied,

and I tire from your wars.

Waiting for blackened roses to be cast

at my feet.

You dangle vines of possibility in their place.

When I have accepted the death knell.


King amongst men,

but absentee husbandman.

How is a Queen to survive

40 days and nights on promises broken?

Let us die in this wilderness,

so that I am free to return to loneliness.

That blessed empty solitude

I am accustomed to.

At least it does not deceive

with visions of happiness often abandoned.


I fear you will not take notice of my leave.

The crown of thorns by the bed side.

The scent of tears and my imprint

on sheets that is foreign to our infrequent lovemaking.

Farewell to these arms.

An embrace half endured.

May the streets be lined with feathers

for your footfalls always away from me.


I have nothing to offer

but stained glass memories.

These will never be dusted by broken into pieces.

Placed in a black box and remanded to a pauper's grave.

You will not visit, and I will bless you for this.

Not to taint the one resting place

where we finally are at peace.

PAD #2: Friday Sunday

God has a sense of humor

Answering my infrequent requests with quirky replies.

Such as sunshine and a brother

named Sunday.

He knows I don't observe holy days

Yet he reminds me good things can be observed

Any day of the week.

No walls of stone and tongues of brass necessary.

Just a simple thank you for a glance my way,

and a reason to smile.

PAD #1 Haiku - Cheap Booze, Bad Woman

Don’t trust bitches
Named after cheap liquor
It’s bad taste like their name sake

National Poetry Month Etiquette

Greetings Fellow Poets,

In the last few years I have moved from sharing my NPM/NapoWrimo/Poem A Day poems on Blogger and Myspace accounts to Facebook. The problem with sharing on FB during the 30/30 challenge is that every one seems to lose their minds in an ecstatic attack of tagging. I tried in vain to keep up with the many poems and to leave responses, but at some point my strength failed me, and honestly there were quite a few people who tagged me, that I was deeply uninterested in reading. The creative rigors and demands of National Poetry Month are already exhausting with out the added irritant of a "tag attack."

You and I can't possibly write a poem everyday AND be expected to respond to the hundreds of other poets posts too. Therefore I propose The National Poetry Month Etiquette. This year for the sake of your sanity and mine, and please feel free to pass this along to other poets, here are a few rules of thumb to manage and survive NPM 2011 on Facebook:


1. An-tag-onization

With 30 days and 30 poems at your disposal don't feel the need to tag people daily. Every poem does not need to be tagged. Instead of drawing attention to your piece and attracting responders you are actually annoying and repelling them with excessive tagging. Show a little restraint, and you will make Facebook and your friends happier during NPM 2011.

2. Tag with caution

While we may think every last one of our pieces are epic masterpieces in the making, let me assure you they are NOT. If you must tag, then be choosy. Pick your best piece to share and tag those whose feedback and opinion you value. It's not very likely that you will get a response from a random FB friend that you ignore the other 11 months of the year. Be kind and considerate to your fellow FB writers by rotating tag detail. Tag one set on select pieces, and then tag other friends on other pieces, that way everyone get's a chance to partake of your creative offerings.

3. It's called Read a Poem, Write a Poem for a reason

No one likes a tag attention whore. Share the love by reading and responding to other people's poems before hitting them with a barrage of your own. Take some time to check out new writers besides your standard favorites. You might be pleasantly surprised and come across some finger snapping dopeness or receive inspiration from an unexpected source. One of the great pleasures of NPM is the awesome outpouring of diverse writings from different people. People are more inclined to respond to your work if they see you have taken the time to read theirs.

4. Shallow responders need not reply

"That's deep" and "Dope" are typical and banal replies. You're a poet, I know we can do better than this. No one expects you to write a testament or critical analysis in response to their piece, but more invested responses are appreciated. Try to give fellow writers respect by offering constructive criticism, genuine praise, or props for a well written poem. If you don't have time for extended replies, that's cool, but leave a little love after reading. It means a lot to me and your fellow posters.

5. Tag Reaction Time

Just because you tag a person, does not obligate them to read or respond to your piece. With news feeds racing at a million miles per second on FB, your post might just get missed. Don't take it personal. Give people some time to make it over to your post. If you don't get a billion responses consider quality replies over quantity. And if you don't get any at all don't let it break your brilliant streak. On to the next one. You have 30 days and 30 poems to write someone's socks off so be patient.

That being said be creative and have fun! I look forward to reading many great poems!

PS. This is the most excessively tagged post you will receive from me this month. Promise! LOL!

Advice for Future Lovers

1.

When a woman is prepared to grant you the desires of your heart
Consider it with the seriousness of staring down the endless barrel of a loaded gun
Do not speak words of love, if there is uncertainty in the forethought.
Loving is a decision, not by default.

2.

Young mortals are on uneven ground with Goddesses.
Do not attempt to make her your own because you are enchanted.
If you cannot accept her as a woman when her glamour becomes flesh
Leave before she falls for your humanity.
Its easier to daydream than live with her in reality.
The Queen could not crown a royal bastard King
When he did not recognize his own reflection
No matter how many times she offered the mirror
All so broken and unable to live in peace.
Sweet beds do become bitter battlefields.

3.

Be grateful to leave a woman without scars.
If she has allowed you to leave with your dignity intact
Respect her.
Let no strange women speak or treat her carelessly.
Honor her enough to keep her good name whole.
Whores are not for the keeping of company
Or you will find yourself despised and outcast among those you once called friends.

4.

In the event you should grow into a man.
Find yourself and discover the world outside of you
The next time a woman offers her heart
Be ready with open palms
Know your own mind
So that you do not confuse hers.
Be a rock and not the shifting sand.

5.

Remember this poem
When you suffer your first real heartbreak.
When you wish for comfort.
When you miss the warmth of a sincere embrace.
Think back to the haven you left
To find your manhood.
Thank God for being able to feel and finally understand
That all things worth having require sacrifice
Especially when it hurts.

PAD #23: For "It Girls" (Women in the spotlight)

When our pain becomes so good to others, that it eclipses our true purpose...

The masses will worship us
with fawning gazes and saccharine praise.
We are most beautiful when we are
broken.
Brilliant when the pain sings
the ballad of a betrayed heart.
Our struggle is a splendid wine,
sipped slowly.
Savored between lips
that eclipse all truth and spin
us as fantasy.
Our flesh and blood is not
sexy enough for real life.

It's the price we pay
for being ingenious.
Goddesses beaming upon
the poor souls too blighted
in their ignorance.
Indifferent to the blows dealt,
to shape these Earthen vessels of desire.
Enamored with our grace
reaped through suffering
that births humility.
Finding our witticism sparkling
Never understanding the edge
has been honed by our inability to cry anymore.
So we laugh and make light of life.
It's too hard to weep, when water
is bought at such a high cost.

We accessorize agony
with charming smiles and wicked stilettos.
Strut with burdens balanced
on our supple spines.
Align our shoulders with the stars
and wear the shimmer casually.
Only a diva could be so carefree
with worry eating at the wounds.
Encircling our womb like a granite fist.
We spit gravel on mics,
and you call it shine.

Our love is a cage of azure peacock feathers.
Fury a forked tongue shrew
french kissing your soul.
We make heartbreak look gorgeous
decored in bloody velvet and lace.
Convince you the reason
you are here is to receive.
But we are possessing your minds
and spirits as collateral.
Profiting from your pathetic attempts
to gate us with expectations.
Of course you dream of us.
Sirens stealing your heartbeat.
Words tongue tripping each
vertebrae until you call ours names in the dark.
We saw you cum when we were not there.

Tasting your oily adoration.
You attempted to mask the musk
of your jealously.
Deliberately, we fuck with you.
Each stanza carves at your mind.
The prose penetrates your private
places.
This violation is good to you.
The way you wish your idolatry were good to us.
When you applaud our pain.
Ignore the pleas for compassion.
Disregard our humanity and sup
from the table of our damnation.
Our troubles delight you,
and you snap your fingers and demand more.

We are the word whores.
Place pennies in our pussies
and it will produce rainbows.
Wrap you in golden swaths of light.
Transcend you, and for a moment
you rest in nirvana.
Mary Magdalene of the moment.
The "It Girl" radiant, in your
narrow spotlight.
We make you clap for it.
Yearn for it.
Spend five bucks every night for it.
Bankrupt your brains for it.
Our head game is Freudian mixed
with Nietzschean.

How else can we serve you?

When the moon blows out and the stardust settles
We are a fragment of that ethereal being
Women of fragile bone, and resilient heart
Wanting nothing but our voices
and to be accepted as

Ourselves.

PAD #22: Today

For two days I have neglected
the world.
Turned inward and regarded
the mess that has become my life.
Part of me, does not know
how I got here.
Another, knows damn well
I have been a long time crumbling.

I am not broken,
but there are fissures in my soul.
Fault lines waiting to widen
with the next hurt.
Emotional meltdowns when
my hands and mind are not busy.
I tried to avoid home,
and found myself standing on corners.
Crying.
This is when I lost myself.

Tears come like intermittent downpours.
I am never prepared.
I can't stop the spills,
and maybe many more will fall
before this is done.
Stage faces were meant
to be washed off at some point.
I look very human right now.

I will stop apologizing
for all that I am not.
For having feelings.
Stop listening to those
who are not inside my head.
Take this one step at a time.
Reclaim my life and remain
brave enough to be this woman
whose blood is a river of fires
searching for the eternal sea.

PAD #20: Expose

Because you will gnaw my name
between your teeth.
Nosedive into the shadows of my world
in search of scraps.
Hold your breath for my
public exhalation.
Triumph in my troubles
and hope I will break and hide.
I write this poem for you.

You longed for us to fail
from the beginning.
Could not accept our love
for its reality.
I don't expect you to recognize,
what you have never known.
We could not fake the gazes,
the smiles, the love making, and
conversations past midnight,
the hand holding, and touching foreheads.
The sighs and the pain.

Our evidence was too faulty
for the flawed.
You searched for cracks
in the wall of our union.
Our wine was too sweet for
you to intrude on our communion.
Bitter is the woman who covets
the love of another sister.
Guile is the man who speaks
doubt in his brother's ear about his woman.
You smiled weakly in my face,
spoke directly to my man.
Offended he did not waste
a glance on you.
You could never replace me.
My reality would fade you
leaving only regrets that
you are not ME.

I am overwhelmed and juggling
a job, college and a relationship
on the rocks.
When there is love, but it's not
enough to make all things right.
Confused and needing the space
to think and retreat.
I am skeptic of my art and
angry at myself for not
following my dreams.
Not living up to the standards I deserve.
No one has hurt me more than myself.
I am nobody's victim, but I do know
the violation of a public view.

Fuck you, if you believe
I should be more than human right now.
Forgiving to those that mean me ill.
Bury any beefs that deserve to be
cattle to the slaughter.
For believing my consciousness,
means I won't curse you out or condemn you.
It's no easy task to be a Legacy, in a world
of energy vampires and zombies.
Bitch, you follow where I lead
even when you don't want to.

I am not afraid to bleed before you.
My life has always been open.
I grow stronger from your criticism,
and your inability to hurt me.
I am teflon, and you are
the bullets that failed to meet their target.
Adjust your bulls-eye and kill yourself.
Die to the pathetic creature you are,
and resurrect as a life with purpose.
The world needs more of me,
and less creatures like you.
Do the divine math, and see
if you could attempt to balance the equation.

My woes are war stories for women
who fight with teeth and heart.
Victorious because I can write my pain,
and still be open to love.
Not bitter and broken.
This volcano has awoken,
and the smoke is a sign of life.
For you it is a warning.
Be careful what you say,
because lava burns fierce and slow.
I am not sleeping...
I am not sleeping...
I am awake and ready to
Blow.

PAD #19: Back Again (Ocean)

I.

Here we are again,
hurting.
So broken and fighting tides
of bitterness.
Swallowing the axis of our hearts
and colliding in our souls.
A musical tempest.
Harmonies destroyed in the
downward pull.

II.

I fled into your ocean.
Hoping to be swept away from the shores.
Discovering you have been drifting too.
Shattered on the unkind rocks
as the seagulls pick at your ribcage.
The marrow in my lovely bones are chilled.
I needed the warmth of your flesh
to remind me I am still alive.

III.

You are virtuoso at mastering my pain.
Blending the vibrato of our heartbreaks.
Creating resonance from the dissonant beats
and break them into arias in my belly.
Chanting your name in ascending octaves
until I am breathless.
You scaling every arch of my body
Tuning me to your curvature.
Your staff striking my deep chords
My soprano shreds the darkness.
Encore, please.

IV.

The chaotic waves,
dwindle to soft currents.
We become reflective pools
mirroring vulnerability.
So beautiful.
Hearts just like the ocean.
Vast as the hurts we harbor.
Stranded together.
Awaiting the tide
to drown us once more.

PAD #13: The Spirit Beautiful

We have been taught to stand before mirrors
in judgment.
Condemning every curve, roll and dimple of flesh.
Breasts heavy with the yearning to be free
of their burdened hearts.
When was the last time you found yourself beautiful,
Woman?

We are strident slashes on neutral canvases.
These bodies do not fit into ideal figures.
Failing imitations of media mannequins.
Rife with thinner and thicker than thou complexes.

If we are different
Our celebrations are more like martyrdom.
When courage is stronger than manipulation.
Society will grapple our identity, fondle our confidence
and co-opt our sensuality.
Strip and display it like
young women on poles.
Bone, blood and supple flesh
offered to indolent eyes.
Beauty is for the bartering
and there is no self value on the stage.

When are we going to come off the stroll?
Stop painting ourselves garishly or
fade lackluster.
Cease being walking ads for every product
claiming to induce beauty.
Producing nothingness
in the nexus of our beings.
How gorgeous is the girl
who knows her own soul?
Is not afraid to live by her heart
and not in the sight of others.
Radiating the natural glow of a woman
In love with herself.

Naked to no one, but myself
I brave the mirror.
Accept the imperfect reflection,
knowing this body is beautiful.
Battle scars like sacred hieroglyphs.
Soft parts like rose petals on pillows.
An earthen vessel filled with
the wine of life and brilliance unbearable.
The Spirit Beautiful.

napowrimo #11

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napowrimo 10

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Napowrimo # 9

Saver

NaPoWrimo #8: Unusual Love Poem

With only 15 minutes to spare until midnight...

Certain men in my life have been
cell phones with all the bells and whistles
That takes a splash and suddenly malfunctions.
Or any overpriced electronic diversion
That can't handle the accidental spills of life.

A pair of socks,
Going threadbare too quickly.
Leaving my heels and toes exposed.
You bargain bin buy, you.
Not worth the dime I spent
inside your thin cotton.
You never came clean after the wash.

The gorgeous red lily I bought that died after two days.
All decoration, and no growth.
Watering will kill any living thing
That does not know how to receive
nourishment.

I am accident prone.
You are the no fault insurance
after the damage is done.
No coverage, no compensation
for injuries incurred during involvement.

The men I have loved could be
cheap stilettos.
Sharp, sexy and fun.
Until stepping into the cracks
of the sidewalk.
The sole quickly wears down
and leaves me sore.

A Payless pick
will never be a Manolo Blahnik.
I love shoes, but next time I will shop
for better support.
Choose reliable men as accessories
to match.
No BOGO's allowed when it comes to
my heart.

NaPoWriMo #7: Love (Funny Side Up)

We laughed hooting like
crazed owls mocking poets

Your dimples caved in
My giggles kept them cratered
Our smiles wide as sunrise

NaPoWrimo #6: Whorey Angel (after Betty Davis)

She was a big freak!
A million orgasms
Moaning a bitches brew
Inside Miles head.

Brown and sweet as sugar cane.
She roared and hissed
throbbing fire over bass lines.
Heart between her legs
Sighing serpents from her lips
Licking gun fire funk and
writhing on guitar riffs.
Riding rhythms like a lusty
banshee wailing her soul.

They say she was different...
No, Betty was a bad mama
Afro funky and unashamed
To be Kali fierce and Aphrodite
risque.
Blistering sexpots and leaving men
smoldering in her wake.

Be careful, or she'll beat you
with that turquoise chain and
lay claim to your soul.
If you're in luck, she might be your
nasty gal for a night.
But baby she won't love you
Cuz she is a
Woman.

Naprowrimo prompt #5: Jazzy Belle

You are the only woman I have implored
for mercy.
Attempted to gain your affection
through subservience.
Ingenious, petulant Goddess.
Mocking me with your silence.
Kept me up beyond midnight
Chanting abstract words as a summons.
It delights you to abandon me.
My despair whets your feral appetite.
Licking artful fingers with a malicious grin.
This is our sadistic flirtation.

You thankless whore.
Unfaithful in your musings.
Requiring my blood and guts decor your alter.
Idolatry is your intoxicant.
Sip my worship slowly so that it slides
smoothly down your honeyed throat.
Tasting the arcane lies twined in your kiss.
I am impotent against your searing truths.

It pleases you to bruise my ego
& batter my confidence.
I love you despite this torment.
If only to gain your favor
When I write something worthy.

I wait on you, wanton lover.
Return to my bed and these sheets
will burn as the witches of old.
Desires as ancient as Sanskrit
slashed down your back.
Your breathe a Celtic mist
in my ears.
A symphony of one million crickets
against the snare of our hearts.
My tongue circling every cleft.
Until the notes shatter moonlight
and candle wax on parchment.
I thirst for you as the last
tear that falls from your mystic eyes.

Sun rise will find me alone
Consumed after our communion
Thoughts genuflecting at your memory.
The sheets disarrayed carelessly
As my heart in your palms.
You will leave a fire in my belly
& a twitching in my fingers.
I will write you another poem
Always waiting for your return.


Poetry.