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…

voodoo

the echoes of men

crying out

screaming out

her name

can be heard in the tone

of her incantations

he watched her for a long time

before seeking the remedies of her science

before summoning her style of divination

so preliminary  so momentary

now there she was

chanting an erotic syllabus

of liberations

simple sighs between day-to-day breathing

her power comes from

the ways that she is worshipped

that which is desecrated and disposable

becomes astral

a priestess becomes a savior

her spell is synonymous with others

except for the eyes

they search

they sear

they solder souls together

she never senses the veil

that was placed upon her face

long before she appeared.

blow

the notes explode

coming from nowhere and everywhere

singular/plural

notes stone-written

on a dark primordial sheet

subsequent sheets notwithstanding

their authors the authors of death

sheets of ice

sheets of glass

let the historians argue about

texture and truth…

the trumpet never lies

when it whispers or sighs

that jazz is the woman

that is yet to be born.

she can be heard

at the occasional commemoration

the erection of a statue

centerpiece

of a dysfunctional fountain

of gray stone

of grey stone

the color of evolution

of ecstasy and aesthetics

smell the sound

smell the sound from the horn

beautiful

african funk flower

delicious

caribbean funk flower

precious

diasporan funk flower

midnight notes

the moon disappearing

an eclipse forced into

a pink envelope

sealed on third thought

the notes scramble the darkness…

the trumpet never lies

whether it moans or cries

that jazz is the woman

that is yet to be born.

she is the romance that

shines like brass

making eyes water and weep

blurring the reality

blurring the unreality

destroying all the scholarly discourse

invoking the intercourse

of an esoteric era

nubian notes

embraced only by the graced

who may or may not

give grace…

salvation

a screaming solo

that commands the chaos.

impromptu

you are so unrehearsed…

with you, dusk cannot be forced upon the morning

with meaningless whispers

the half-filled wine glass is no longer

my shallow pond

it’s rim is no longer

my circumference:

i stumble from the stage with each smile

like a child who has just become aware

of his existence

of his surroundings

this is where, and how, i bow:

afraid to look down for too long

or you may be gone…

Miz Sandals

Her eyes twinkle with a glimmer
of mischief and delight, asking the question:
“So, how long will he be able to resist the temptation
that starts with the toes and begins a slow ascent
that sometimes ends at the ankles…and sometimes not?”

Her grin is from ear to ear
the occasional soft chuckle seems to say
“Yeah, I wore these just for you…can you handle it?”

Red is sometimes the color of the garment that sensually
accentuates the toes, arches and heals that bear the weight
of what the world has laid at her feet, polish complimenting
her choice, as she proclaims to the world
“I’m going to walk in the Spirit regardless…”

Sometimes the color is brown. Sometimes black. Sometimes gold.
Sometimes the color cannot be defined
But the color of her heart never changes