Perhaps (A new generation of movement and being)

my grandson likes to sit at the back of the bus.
my instincts say “no!”
but perhaps he has overcome the
cultural, psychic, and racial trauma that once
belonged to our people,
perhaps he hears the ancient whispers of the ancestors,
they tell him his path is open, he can now lead a new way,
fight a new fight, build a new legacy…
perhaps he is of the generation that is re-appropriating
a practice once so dehumanizing, where
folks of color with weary hands and tired souls
were forced by a code of laws
to yield to dominant and appropriating thugs,
who, by the end of the day,
had worked hard to keep us in psychic chains,
and allowed back-row only seats to our misery
as reminders of our place in this life.
perhaps his tiny feet, has found a place for him to rest
after a day of friendly play at the park
that only the back of the bus can bring.
perhaps my historical fears are unfounded,
and perhaps he is just a happy little 4-year old boy
whose time has come to sit on the back of the bus
not because some prohibitive creed says he must,
but perhaps that is where some other
revolution will soon take place.
perhaps.

I Heart

I heart this moment—
to reflect on the taste of
popcorn and almonds,
to delight in the beauty
of gray skies,
the flickering light of a candle,
the sound of music…
I heart this journey
of long nights,
longer daylights,
for the serenity found in creativity,
for the joy and comfort
of yellow daisies.
I heart the benefit of a peace of mind.

The Football Field (In Memory of Bobby Tucker)

your sweet and sober darkness/danced all around me/
and i delighted in the white chocolate frosting of your eyes
garnishing my body and my wayward youthful soul/

with feathers as bold and as beautiful as a peacock’s
you strutted your stuff/ and i became your captive audience/
my applause was as soundless as the night echoing through our ears/

we lay peacefully in our private backyard/the field of our pre-adult dreams/a playground for our foolishness/together we made history with the truancy of our actions/
our dna marked the crimes committed by unbridled passion/ and seasoned the morning’s dew.

Resistance: A Song for My Sisters in C Minor

in the silence of dark matter
a litany of voices struggle to rise to the top
voices muted by death, physical, emotional, and psychic abuse
words strangled by hands with evil imprints, misogynist intentions
stories mutilated and raped til they become unrecognizable
unreadable and reconstructed by lies, deceit, and produced in remote
locations like so many snuff films for a wicked and voyeuristic audience—
those responsible for unsolicited penetration, for the crimes of passion
that lead to the disappearance of sound, the screams of little girls and women
muffled by swollen dicks and clenched fists of fury and hate
rarely make it to trial or serve sentences fitting their offenses
but the memories of those harmed are buried in vacant lots, cold case files,
in cemeteries of broken bones, broken lives, broken hearts
left forgotten in the basements of museums, in unmarked graves
in history books offering no apology, that refer to our bodies and behavior
as deviant, pathologize our existence, ‘other’s’ our presence, marginalize our experiences—
in the discourse of deception, in the murkiness of dreams comes a courage that roars
it is the forgotten songs of the struggle for liberation that our history would suppress
it is the cries of women and girls who dare to say no to racist, sexist, and class oppression
in the silence of dark matter, our voices will rise and we will be heard
listen up

Transplant

the tailor of hearts cannot measure nor mend
the wearing and tearing of this delicate arterial fabric—
it cannot be recycled nor consigned to other bleeding bodies
ill-fitted and unsuitable for love and pending disasters—
a hole left gaping is a whole lot of sadness for those standing by
and the seamstress of desire, the fashionista of surgical healing
is at a loss not knowing which instruments of precision can cut through
yards and yards of hurt, pain, an endless tearing of the soul
of threads left bare by ripping emotions unchecked by inspector #21—
all that is left is a faint beat, barely audible but with a patch of memory
placed tenderly in a bag of ice, taking short breaths to survive its transport
a hastened journey to one waiting in the icu of unimaginable possibilities
and an open chest of anticipation that the hymns of love will be a perfect match

Reflections on a Troubled Land and the Courage and Conviction of Her People

As I review and peruse through the many articles, pictures, videos and news streams filling my inbox and facebook page, I am feeling a mix of emotions: sad, angry, disgusted, helpless,  hopeful. The revolution taking place in Egypt and other Arab nations across the Middle East is long overdue and appreciated by this blogger. Even Italy has gotten into this revolutionary mix with the call for the country's president to step down. It is a reminder of what is lacking here in the U.S.--the courage and conviction to re-revolutionize in a land, stolen, pillaged, colonized and made oppressively capitalistic and opportunistic (as in the poor taste displayed and the total disregard and disrespect for the struggles of an oppressed people by designer Kenneth Cole). Maybe we have it a little better, but not by a lot. With the increasing number of displaced and unemployed workers, homeowners, members of communities of color being further marginalized, excluded and villanized by gentrification, negative media coverage (ain't nothing good in the hood, let them tell it), things are not so pretty in the land of plenty. It's downright ugly. The downside to this is that so many of us suffer needlessly in silence. We've become adept at individualizing our poverty, hunger, homelessness, joblessness, the violence that can result from people giving up and/or blaming each other for what's clearly not something we've created (we blame immigration/illegal alienation for no jobs or the outsourcing of jobs, put the onus of crime on black, latino/a and other poor communities of color giving us all more reason to discriminate, disassociate, and disregard one another). Distraction from the many issues plauging not just our communities but society in general can be found in popular culture, our need to have gadgets, be submerged in electronic commercialism, longing for and envying those who seem to have everything, just the naivete of believing that in a so-called democratic society, everyone has the opportunity to have it all. It ain't so, folks. But I probably don't need to tell you that, right? I don't need to tell you that here, in our own nation, things aren't what they're cracked up to be.
Watching a news report (a pretty bad one at that) on a corporate-owned media outlet, a reporter speaking on the events taking shape in Egypt, said with some conviction and perhaps some arrogance, that revolutions don't take place in countries (read, the U.S.)where people are living large. Really? Just like our allies in Egypt fighting for an end to political corruption, high unemployment, poverty, we can find threads of similarities that should have us out in the street, millions and millions strong. The U.S. has just been able to mask the problems polarizing us as a nation. But they're not really fooling anybody, are they? So why are we so quiet? Why are we not protesting en mass?
This is the thought I am meditating on as I contemplate what it means to be a comrade in struggle, as I mindfully applaud our sista and brothas in Egypt courageously standing up against a decades-long oppressive government, having the courage of their convictions to speak up and say to Hosni Mubarak, "No you can't," "You're fired! Get out! Step down!" I wish we could have displayed the same strength 30 years ago, when the political and economical wheels were set in motion that has brought us to where we are today. Sometimes we can't see the forest because the trees are filled with the bullshit of false promise, the leaves have all turned to iphones, the drama of the Kardashians, anything that prevents us from seeing and seeking truth and justice and shackles us in a state of consumerism. We are hurting, we are losing our minds and our souls to capitalism, just as the conservative powers that be are trying to turn the clock back to 1980. Are we willing to let that happen again? All hell is breaking loose, and we haven't even begun to realize just how much is at stake, already at stake. In my state of contemplative discourse, I pray for the courage of my convictions, for the stength I need to find words to envoke a spirit of revolution, change (long overdue), and to remain forever in solidarity with those struggles worldwide that often mimic our own. In love and struggle.

More Organizing Thoughts

I was thinking today about the previous post placed here. About how dysfunctional working within the industry of non-profit organizing has become. I worry about this avenue, now being the main (and most recognized) artery to organizing and addressing social issues, becoming a dead-end or a roadblock to real progress being made (grassroots has taken on a whole new meaning these days with the (re)emergence of seemingly fanatical right thinking groups and their maniacal rhetoric, such as the tea party, Alliance for America’s Future, and American Action Network—thanks to my current reading of Mother Jones—and I’m not sure how appropriate it is to use the term in conjunction with social justice organizing from a non-profit level). An elephant, twice the size of any other, is in the room, but no one really wants to acknowledge it exists even when it is taking up more space than necessary or safe.