Tag Archives: african-american

Used to the Weather

Adapting to the changes. To changes, I adapt. Eerily. Patiently. An early November morning winks her eye. Still gambling with old dice, trying to outlive the poison of snakebites or out hustle the pigs at a scrambler’s pace. Colonial thinking does not live in these veins. Strange DNA. I hear an unkempt drummer. Hands slapContinue reading “Used to the Weather”

Live with the Risks

Sparrows chirp; traffic gentlyroars; a cul-de-sac sleeps, breathes, slowly prepares for the day. Geese block the street, forcing a black pickup truck to stop for superior creatures with jazz-like steps, natural connections to the land, man-made water sources. They grind, hustle. Loud machines do not bother. Towering trees stand, like neighborhood pillars. I-64 chants aContinue reading “Live with the Risks”

Jazz Hangs on a Saturday

Avoiding noise,like vibes consumeskin. Constantly. Fixing flats onpolluted earth,patching up holes onliberated wings.Snatch up purpose andmemorize thecracks in culture. Jazz hangson flesh. JohnColtrane. Dexter  Gordon. Mr. TheloniousMonk taps keys, altering moods. Rick laughs at an episode of Malcolm and Eddie, while Ryan unfolds a box of Kane’s fried chicken, hoping to uproot mystique, justify the snake-like backups onContinue reading “Jazz Hangs on a Saturday”

Tradition for What?

Too fast to wear a crown.Uneasy. Heavy is the head. STILL. Raised on a different frequency,moving skillfully with sharks, like Miles Davis swimming in sound. SOUND is a temple. The gamble crawls on skin, and I change lanes. Stuck in this blues, living with designed purpose. God’swill on flesh. Them levels be dangerous. Bones tellContinue reading “Tradition for What?”

A Hustle Beyond the Stars and Stripes

Beyond traffic. Beyond cracked lives. Beyondbluesy attitudes, polluted countries, and silly white genocides. Bones don’t move for plastic ideals, shifty rhetoric, and piggish ways to prove American vomit is a gold-plated crutch. Sunlight breathes new days. Moonlight counts dollar bills while the masses stumble for food, shelter, living wages. Tap-dancefor a machine? Why? Stick outContinue reading “A Hustle Beyond the Stars and Stripes”

Suffocating Skin

Scrape knuckles againstfigurative concrete, looking for daylight, tucking earbuds into ears, listening to Fela Kuti. Traffic blurs. To be human is to walk along a tightrope. I levitate, hover above polluted frequencies. Above the fray is wherelesser gods like to find sanctuary. Cool, like jazzy rhythms vibrate beneath my steps. This path is heavy. TheContinue reading “Suffocating Skin”

Shape a Dream/ Apply Muscle

Woke up to thismorning hustle. James Brownscreams them proud-like riffs to start another day. The belly of the machine is funky and fatal. Breathe after my own fashion. I saybreathe after my own fashion. Togamble with sun- light, like God owes me a favor. Like the Most Highclutches a black steering wheel and swerves alongContinue reading “Shape a Dream/ Apply Muscle”

I Will Breathe After My Own Fashion

Leaning into Identity–a scarred child break- ing the bars of a colonial cage. Rage is temporary (sometimes). Pleasant, like Jill Scott singing about living a golden life or like Bobby Womack crooning–110th Streeton his mind. No mercy for leaderswho use power, like an eraser, jazz-like, scrubbing surfaces for definitions of power or splashes of theContinue reading “I Will Breathe After My Own Fashion”