room service

staring into the hell-house mirror

219 suddenly becomes a 187

another death by distortion

he can’t help but wonder

who allowed her eyes to enter

into the room

he dialed lust for murder

but the line went dead

as cold as the snow that speckled

the windshield like drops of love

frozen and fractured

during the long journey back

to the beginning…

he stared at it

wondering if it was as long as

the ones her friend whispered about…

back to the beginning-

blood trickles

down the side of his face

though he is surprised

that he has any left

the tears have sapped his veins

been on the rack for a long time

down deep where no one can see

brought up every now and then

and put on display-

today’s mannequin for madness

that reigns throughout the lonely castle

made from the plastic of

childhood toys molded and mangled

like memories that mold and mangle…

a staff made from cuervo gold

is the only thing that he can hold on to

his soul oozing through his fingers

like wax from a candle that can’t be

blown out

he stares at the gimmick in the mirror

and starts to cry…

back to the beginning-

issues of manhood and money

his face (from an old photo)

taped onto a counterfeit bill

small denomination

he knows that he’s worth more

but the bill-of-sale has faded

since 1619…

denomination

the caste of brethren

that he shares the room with

damned by paper-thin divinity

and devotees they pay love to…

Ntozake Shange: When the rainbow prevails

When I die, I will not be guilty of having left a generation of girls behind thinking that anyone can tend to their emotional health other than themselves.

Ntozake Shange

With Tyler Perry’s movie For Colored Girls opening today, I felt compelled to devote a post to the vision and influence of the woman whose literary work the movie is based on, Ntozake Shange. I believe that this is a day to celebrate and that the celebration should be about something far more significant than any success or failure that may be assigned to the movie.

In preparing for this post I came across an interview of Ms. Shange that was done several years ago. When asked why she decided to become a writer she said, “I couldn’t find anything that truly reflected what I thought was my reality and the reality of other women my age. Since I couldn’t find it, the only responsible recourse was to write some myself.”

The movie will be introducing Ms. Shange’s play for colored girls who considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf to a new generation, specifically a new generation of African-American females. Ms. Shange survived several suicide attempts to become one of the most accomplished and recognized writers of our time. Her story is not only one of survival, but also of triumph against destructive forces that besieged her from both within and without.

In another quote from the interview Ms. Shange shares that “…the imaginings of women of color are particularly sacred to me. Those are things we cannot afford to lose when we are being beaten down constantly.” Those words still resonate with raw relevance today, and regardless of any reactions or reviews that the movie may incite, I believe that it will serve a far greater purpose than for the pursuit of profit or praise…

lost sketches

death was not so much final as it was finished

like a chalked profile slowly filled

with asphalt and aspirations

blackness as texture and tone

the mixture for pencils broken in desperation

upon the outlined emptiness

within the outstretched hands

(the grabbing and pulling back)…

we sometimes die like unfinished sketches.

I can see him sitting in the basement

in the darkness, for long periods of time

staring at the dusty, webbed, gray paper

(and the occasional unopenable window)

holding, caressing, the tinted skin

he had poured himself into

(brown like himself and just as fragile)

a prop for the art,

the partial depictions of the man

that he had run away from,

of the man he had become,

with each stroke that he didn’t make her

scream out his favorite portrait,

or simply appraise him as a man

within the walls of that gallery

(uneven alley of self-portraits bought and sold)

where each of their works were displayed

(it was her motions that often formed

the brush, if not her tongue)…

there is that portrait on the elder’s wall

confirming that he had compared sketches with the sun

and had exchanged notes with leaves that fell out of season

beauty both portrayed and betrayed, turned against,

within the walls of that gallery

(collections of reproduced conscience bought and sold)

where his profane works were the most celebrated…

we are sometimes forgotten like lost sketches.

Black Dating in a Hip Hop Society

It might be wise to attach a disclaimer to this post: The views expressed in this video are not necessarily the views of The Muse Minefield (namely me). And there is some explicit language.

I simply see the video as a creative look at the complexities of the black male/female relationship today, particularly as it pertains to the Hip Hop generation. But after all is said and done it’s one man’s (who refers to himself as GQnupe) perspective that, from what I can tell, has attracted some attention and has sparked spirited debate.

Sometimes debate is good. Here’s hoping that it leads to more meaningful dialogue than it does deepening division. Hey, we can always hope…right?

mandingo

if she truly believed that a woman’s

words can kill a man

why wasn’t she more careful?

like the alarm that promises July’s radiance

but only delivers the narrow eyes of the blinds

searching through a shackled greyness

her moans often sound an empty dawn.

someone said

that the true test of a man

is the woman he loves…

she weeps this proverb

into the pillow that she hugs

as they make love facing her favorite painting

of an African woman carrying her manchild

on her back as she stands in the middle of a village

laughing with another woman.

he often rests his head upon that same pillow

struggling before he’s able to sleep

as he tries to recreate the same old dream:

that her old lovers were conquered in the moaning…

When a death video goes viral

“For their feet run to evil, and make haste to shed blood.”

Proverbs 1:16

There are few things more precious than a Mom and Dad’s memories of their children, of guiding them through the laughter and the crying, the discoveries and the disappointments. Watching the twinkle of innocence in their little infant eyes develop into the sparkle of wonder and anticipation during the years of adolescence, to become the brilliant star of a promising adulthood.

When those memories are unconscionably violated by images that are impossible to erase it is nothing short of an abominable tragedy. 

When I came across the news story that the parents of Dayna Kempson-Schacht received a graphic video of her just moments after her fatal car accident, and that the video had been posted online, the first question that popped into my mind was: Why would anyone want to do that? How can someone be so callous and insensitive as to send grieving parents a fresh reminder of such a devastating loss?

It was suggested that the video was sent to the parents only to make them aware that the video existed. OK, I can see warning the parents that the video existed, but did they have to send them the actual video? I guess that one person’s good intention is another person’s grievous invasion, separated only by the thin line of common sense, or lack thereof.

But is it merely a lack of common sense, or something deeper and darker?

With this incident coming on the heels of the coverage of the Tyler Clementi story I’m certain that the conversation regarding the sometimes catastrophic combination of technology and temptation will intensify. The thing is that while technology presents its own set of temptations it is simply modernizing those temptations that have plagued mankind since the beginning of time.

But right now my thoughts and prayers are with Dayna’s parents. I can only imagine that the day that they received the video they woke up determined to get through another day, armed with only the loving and lasting memories of their daughter. I’m sure that it never occurred to them that they would be dragged down into someone else’s spiritual poverty.

I figure that someone has to be living a pretty miserable life to pull a stunt like that. But like my mother has always said: Misery loves company.

dust to dust

our bodies bounce and bend as if we’re requesting entry into the grooves

of the dusty Smokey Robinson record that crackles and skips

but we continue our dance like we’re back in 1969

long before we met but we remember the dreams that we had as kids, the feelings that we had as kids

when the air was different / when the care was different

we wondered what it would be like, the way it would look, the way it would feel…whatever it was

but we would only catch the last part of sentences, the parts that would sound the best- what some would call climaxes-

where the men would start laughing and the women would start shushing them, saying “them kids might be listening!” We were…

and here we are, bringing the dust to our tongues like the sugar we licked off our fingers when we were kids…

Bashful Giggles

There are words that echo
behind the words that she softly speaks

“Still waters run deep…Still waters run deep…”
are the words that I hear, but she may have only said
“the salad is pretty good,” or “the boys are doing fine…”

Who really knows
What her eyes have seen
What her ears have heard
What her heart has felt
(has any one ever asked?)

One may ask a question – any question
and she’ll just smile and giggle
with joy at the threshold of the mystery
that often underlines her silent observations

Her eyes humbly, sweetly say
“I know something that you don’t know…”
and it’s about more than the sacrifices that she’s made
or the dreams deferred like a raisin in the sun

it’s about the untapped well of her soul
it’s about the mystery that is yet to unfold.

cold war

the darkness in the room does not
cannot
conceal the enemy that has
no face / no torso / no legs
but is all soul
that is divided like that part of him
that her thigh now rests against

clandestinely

the toes that occasionally brush
against the back of his leg
become simply those of a woman
just another female
something under his breath
de personalized / de humanized

she acts as if life and love are forever.