No filters up here. Alone on a tightrope above the noise, the metal, the grit, the social pollution; miles away from a soiled Constitution, I sharpenthe edge of a brain fixated on survival. Laced up boots are normal conditions. Tupac hollers from a street corner. I focus on the margins, making a homenear outlaws, rebelsContinue reading “Sunflower Seeds and the Work of Tomorrow”
Tag Archives: mailbox weekly
Tethered to the Master’s Feet
High-stepping over snake-like structuresseems to be easy when avoiding them filthy cherry pies. I keep moving, like grit is a small bird perched on my shoulders. Trump hollers about immigrants with darker hues. New identity groups echo his hot-tempered rhetoric, like they forgot liberation is already in our DNA, like we forgot that they grovelContinue reading “Tethered to the Master’s Feet”
Dopamine Drip From Cracked Pipes
Don’t chase the temporary high of click bait and sophisticated ways to steal attention. We have been reduced to mindlessly scrolling for our enslavement–prisoners trapped behind walls, claiming we are free because the Constitution says so. Silly rationales have value. The paradigm remains. Instead, I lift fingers to rebel, to soothe, to heal, and toContinue reading “Dopamine Drip From Cracked Pipes”
No Mercy in the American Jungle
Mercy can’t live in a jungle. This experiment is deadly, a creature that tries to fill its belly on the flesh of humans. A game of click-clack starts as soon as boots touch the ground. Throwing dice is like breathing, dreaming. Empire functions as it was designed. I move along a black marble square, aContinue reading “No Mercy in the American Jungle”
Late Autumn Talks in Tongues
Balancing weight for the fifth time this week. Subtle. Heavy. A bluesy rhythm set to the tone of American hustle, muscle. Carlos Santanna strums a melody for a sun hanging on a cold day in late November. Nothing moves outside besides random crows and Black Friday sales. Crafting lines around moods has been the way,Continue reading “Late Autumn Talks in Tongues”
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”
Words and Beats at Sundown
Joy is a state of mind. Even a crooked smile has value. Changing tires in the wilderness has become a thing. Greg Lee unpacks the gear for another small crowd. We fall in with the people for an hour, connecting our stories, our long walks for meaning. A Haitian woman says we remind her ofContinue reading “Words and Beats at Sundown”
With Outstretched Wings
American politics weigh the equivalent of a night without Bobby Womack’s raspy voice filling this space. Eerie. Boring. Slightly neutral. Need some Soul to waist away the evening. Maybe some Blues from John Lee Hooker. I sample a new protein powder in my coffee. Unflavored. The Stevia crawls down my throat in slow leaps andContinue reading “With Outstretched Wings”
New Poems in The Skinny Poetry Journal!
Peace and greetings! I hope this message finds you well and finding some semblance of peace in the current whirlwinds of the American experience. The Skinny Poetry Journal has published two of my poems, James Baldwin’s Smile and Medium Sized Coffee with a Side Order of Resistance. Click on the image and check them out!
Unbothered: After Election Time
After voting time, my face is still shaped like a fist. Tightly screwed. Unbothered. Huey P. Newton behind a podium or Fred Hampton trying to build class solidarity. The truth lives in a gray area, an overcast reality. Strange and lit. Apply maximum muscle in traffic–shun mercy–because they only understand pressure. Pressure is sustained ideology,Continue reading “Unbothered: After Election Time”
The Official Website of Synnika A. Lofton 