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Of All Creation…

Today I want to create

Today I want white dresses

Painted in blood, in red dirt, in grass stains

In rays of sunshine

…Unwrinkled by the wind and wet heat

Today I want to create

Today I want seeds planted on the inside

(To be a walking ground; a foundation not phased by shifts)

Hands to my chest

So you may feel that the seeds beat too

(Just give ‘em some time)

Today I want to create

Today I want love dripping down my thighs

Until sticky

Until translucent turns flakey

Today I want my screams turned into song

My grip.  Turned into push.

My tears turned into oceans blue

No, into freshwater true

Can you swim?

Are you thirsty?

Would you like me to bathe you?

Today I want to create

Today I want to be loved

Into creation

…To loudly whisper love back into

You

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Rest and Shine

 

She lie on the bed; belly down and naked from head to toe.  An ear to the mattress.  And an ear to the wind from an open window.  Her backside adorned with earned stripes – lightening strikes, winding Redwood roots, umbilical cords etched to her hips.  And to his eyes.  He dared not guess if the sun was setting or rising.  But he knew…that it’s rays were finally learning how to illuminate themselves. Continue reading Rest and Shine

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If Tomorrow I Die by Talin Likha

If tomorrow I die,

Would you come to say goodbye?

Would you come to see my face,

for one last time?

Would you then at last realize,

the love I had was true,

that even at my death-bed,

I’m still thinking of you.

 

If tomorrow I die,

without saying goodbye.

Would you miss me when I’m dead?

Please do miss me and be sad.

 

I’m being selfish, yes I know,

but it’ll give meaning to my goals.

It was to ‘Love’ you.

Just to love you, with my all.

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One Moment by Cree Salvai

One moment

That moment

The moment

When you realize

Things aren’t over between the two of you

 

There’s still a bit of a story left

But do you really want the story to go on?

Yes.

No.

Maybe?

 

You fell for him once

Surprise, surprise

He broke you,

Not just your heart

You.

 

Have things changed?

Probably not.

Have you changed?

I think so.

Has he changed?

Not sure.

But probably not.

 

Maybe this isn’t the moment

Maybe this is closure

You know,

The closure you were looking for,

Waiting for,

That never happened?

 

Maybe there was no moment after all

And all this happened in your head.

 

Either way,

You’re both going to go back to the way things were yesterday,

Tomorrow.

Forget what just happened,

And move on.

 

God knows he already did.

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Fight or Flight by Jessi Harrison

(for Dana…)

My first reaction is to run.

There is no fight. But I can fly.

 

For this, I am sorry.

 

You fought.

You built boxing rings

out of test results. Bowed

gracefully before each match.

Showed your opponent no mercy –

but made sure each hit was clean.

 

Me? I took a box of matches

to the mats the morning I woke

to permanent emptiness. I made the hospital

dance in gasolined blue/orange flames against

the grayest November sky ever etched

from Eden’s rough draft.

 

Hey God – you fucking missing a blueprint?!

 

I took your trophies out of the case

& bet it all on forgiveness.

 

Almost doesn’t count.

Almost is so close to complete.

Almost – is fucked.

 

Like – you almost had it beat a third time.

Like – you almost found happiness.

Like you almost won.

 

Like you almost knew how much you were loved.

Like we almost made it clear.

Like you almost stood a chance.

Like it was almost alright.

Like I almost said goodbye.

Like I’ll almost see you tomorrow.

Like it almost doesn’t hurt.

 

Like you are almost still here.

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The Pleasure of Pain by Cree Salvai

I don’t know what hurts more.

The knife slicing my hips

Or the fact I won’t see you tomorrow.

We only had but hours to meet.

 

I don’t know why I feel like this.

I really thought I was okay.

I guess I still just don’t know

How to be sad.

 

I’m in pain all the time.

But it’s not a sharp pain

like the knife.

It’s a dull,

Lasting pain

A pain you think will

Last forever

 

Sometimes I question

Why I don’t just try a little harder

To move on.

But then I think to myself:

 

I’d rather be in pain everyday

Loving you

Than feel nothing at all.

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The World Ain’t Fair by Talin Likha

“The World ain’t fair, my child.”

A father to his discouraged girl.

 

That shattered the father’s heart into prickly pieces for he never imagined a day would come where he had to reveal the horrors of reality to his beloved girl when He first held her as a baby.

He wanted to protect her

 

but

 

He could no longer be her knight in shining armor against this unfair World.

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June Naps in the Town Cemetery by Jessi Harrison

A cricket follows

you into the house.

                               You do not

                               know this at first.

 

But the echoed chirping of trapped

desperation haunts its way

into your dreams.

 

                                 Funny, on how a bad

night, your bed sheets become a blade.

Your sweat becomes the guillotine. And

your dreams become an awakening

into the afterlife.

 

You watch the way

                                 I breathe.

Like an exoskeleton picking

out and rearranging each rib

bone with every rise of the chest.

 

In your sleep – you speak to me

in riddles. Like you can’t afford

tongues. Like the devil

has been cleansed from inside

you. Like you gave up

poison years ago.

 

                                 Yet here we lie.

Dirtying things that do not deserve

stains. Carving our names

into the trunks of trees just to prove

physicality. Knocking over grave

markers in the cemetery like the

answer to every secret

is in the haunting,

                                 not in the ghost.

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Undone.

Do not be afraid to come undone.  All of your ancestors await you at your dawn.  Even the ones who didn’t wish to be there.  Each cell.  Waiting for you to open.  To fall.  To become raw…  So that you may feel.  Supported.  My love…  You are so supported.  Your undoing is your salvation.  There’s a roof made of rain and sunshine.  Floors of solid gold.  The walls never strangle.  Doors are never closed.  Some remove their shoes at the threshold.  But never mind them…  You!  You must come completely.  Undone.  Of you…  They require more – a more clothed in nothing.  Nothing.  At all.  Hang your fear on shoulders that tote wings.  Lay your burdens in laps likened to crimson tides.  Rest your bloodied soles on lashed and leathered backs that have mended themselves.  Spread your aching body across the Atlantic.  They have been waiting to make a bridge.  Out of you.  Come.  And be made.  Whole.

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of spins and speech

Mama says, “When you are really tired, you won’t have to tell anyone.
You will stop proclaiming it from mountaintops,
or rallying around your tiredness in the village square.
Naw, baby!  When you are really tired…in all your blackness
and sexiness and woman-ness, the world will feel it – a guttural
cry from it’s core will rise up!  All words coming together until there are none.
(Have you ever heard a woman’s holler
when the news hits her lactating breasts that there will be no child to feed?
Lost to the auction block or while clawing its way through the vaginal canal?)
It is a sound that you can hear even in your sleep –
a sound that tattoos itself onto windpipes.
The essence of you as a Black. Woman. with the gall to be tired will halt
the earth on its axis.  And everyone…everyone will hold their breath if only
for a moment.  And they will know.  So, naw baby…you ain’t tired just yet.
The earth is still spinning.
And you are still talking.”

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Mano-a-Monologue

He thought I’d fail at the monologue.  Thought I’d clam up, forget words.  Thought perhaps I’d run off the stage, humiliated before even stating the first line.  He forgot.  That back in the day, when the two of us sang duets complete with two-part harmonies and eight extremities that kept the same rhythmic time…  I was composer of both parts.  Of all parts.  Mine and his.  And when he failed to show or was too late to even attempt to appease the crowd, first I was a little panicky.  Then resentful.  And finally inspired.  My gift and my curse – to do the work of two with (somewhat apparent) ease.  So, it was I who stopped the show.  First, to make room for grace…  Maybe he was just late?   Then to make room for a standing ovation…  In his absence.  What made him think…hope I would fail at the monologue?  They’re just duets between you and and an absent someone.  And…well…shit…after all, practice makes perfect.  Practice.  Had plenty of that!  One day.  I pray.  To be free enough to live my own definition of free.  Free enough.  To depend on a true duet.  But for now, the grace period has come and gone.  The show must go on.  Mano-a-Monologue.

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Native Oval

I swear! It’s as if John Wilkes Booth is now in The Oval… Too much of a coward to fight for the cause; believing in white supremacy, though not willing to lace up his boots or even don a white hood. He’s got a pistol in his pocket though. (And an amendment to back it up – alongside so many regrets, so many insecurities). I wonder what they do in there? In that sweaty pocket of heavy punk-assness… Do they lie next to each other and touch when they think everyone is asleep? The pistol, the regrets, the insecurities… I bet you two silver dollars that the loaded bullets of the latter two shoot further than the aforementioned. Banking on the inattention and lethargy provoked by watching ‘Our American Cousin’ in church-like pews. Clap! For an actor named Booth! After all, the shots sounded so…real!

Continue reading Native Oval