Hurt me

Hit me

 Hurt me

Hit me

HIGH TO COME DOWN TO earth come back down

Erratic,pulsing

HATEFUL VERMIN

Worship ugly beauty filled demons. 

Pose struck for a reason

 Steady sexy camera teasing

My shit stinks

A combination of weed and fast food

Liquor,sodas packed with sugar

Candy,fruits shameless dietary habits of youth

Passing gas at last decision making rash

Kiss my black ass I am more than trash . Yesterday’s news

Recurring blues,soles on my feet peeling, opening to holes,

Poverty’s hold.

I walk the streets I feel old

I feel washed

 Tossed and passed show the legs and ass.

This game of life and death.

 So wicked the devil wept.

Memories written 9/24/11

 

I miss those missed nights of twisted visions ,enchanted sights,erect phalluses and the sweetest poetry spewed by the lips of a deceitful cupid. I miss the tension the fear, the pain, the grills 

That rush of man love helping to temporarily drown my insecurities .I’m beautiful at least part of tha day. 

My mind fucked up off the sweet bullshit , my heart fluttering , wishing this shit was real and that after this night he’d call and we could chill. Relax in the crib ,laugh and talk shit  

Have sex, smoke a blunt sip from some cup temporarily a couple. Temporary feelings of love from finding a transient prize. It’s a wonder he can look in my eyes with his lies and mines . We both know all we don’t have and have is time . These memories are bittersweet. It is because of them I pay everyday.  

New barriers to the happy I seek but haven’t found yet. It stops the sweet from being so sweet, the sour not as tart as it seems. Guzzling drink after drink smoking blunt after blunt to try to get blue in the face. 

I’m haunted and happy, lonely and only looking for a few minutes more of happy and sweet bullshit heart fluttering imagination expanding overtime and I’m up at 3 in the morning, tears in my eyes  , missing the night life ,wild sex, the guys, the lies ,the lows and the highs 

Inheritance

How had it gotten here? Terrance thought to himself in the passenger seat of the Impala. The dark streets of Harlem were eerily empty and the pinkness of the night sky foreshadowed the snow storm coming. The man driving had got him here. He’d been too much.

Ugh this fucking bullshit, Lock said out loud as the barricades ahead indicated the closing of the bridge. The further away from the highway , the more chances the kid would jump out and run. That could not happen, it would not happen. The shit stopped now.

Terrance hummed along to Jay Z’s ” Can I live?”. It like all the signs of the night spoke so eerily to his coming fate. He knew he’d violated. He just couldn’t help himself. It was all he could think about, all that he understood to be real. And he couldn’t and wouldn’t apologize for his crimes.

Lock flashed a menacing glare at the boy, the criminal, the wrong one, the motherfucker who had brought this on himself. It just ain’t make no sense, none at all. It didn’t have to come to this. He thought of the stares he’d missed, imagined the movement of lips, the stirrings in groins, the visuals that accompanied the foul brain on shitty nights in shitty overcrowded apartments.

Terrance glanced past Lock at the old block on 143rd. He’d moved from there a while ago. It was there he’d known a Lock before this one. The one who put him on, the one who believed in him, who knew his struggle, knew his lacks , who knew his shame and his pride. That one had made him strong and that one had shown him love. He was devastated for months when that Lock got bodied. Rumor had it, the brother of this Lock had done it.

Lock turned onto the 145th bridge into the Bronx. Dipset came thru the speakers, he turned that shit up amped, real live Harlem shit always. Something this punk ma-fucka knew nothing about . Real ones ain’t move how he did. Lock sparked a blunt as he drove past Bronx Terminal Market and onto 87. He knew where to go. Somewhere real quiet to get rid of the violator. “Ayy yo”, he said to Terrance after he pulled half the blunt, “hit this. You mind as well”. He watched the boy pull from it with his delicate lips. He laughed like a madman,” So fucking obvious”..

Terrance went through a variety of moods as they drove along the Bronx waterway. He’d been sad, had been regretful but something else was stirring in him too. He knew the consequences of being a Redcat and that other thing. He violated harder than the pigs on Rodney King. He was wrong as fuck except he also started feeling like he wasn’t. He always stayed on the block, around the way all day and all night. He was never short and fiends and squares alike respected his style. He wasn’t a flagrant , disrespectful bastard. He was grinding to care for his 2 brothers and sister while his parents dealt with they demons in the street. He’d been a good boy who had no choice but to join a street union. That’s just the way it was.

Lock went through motions in his head. This had been his lil man, highly respected, shorty always came proper with his paper. He was a good worker and wasn’t a slouch ass, half rat ass dude. The knowledge though of that shit, the knowledge that his protege’ was the worst of the worst broke his heart. His uncle Nuke always told him ,” Wanna figure a nigga out, get him wavy”. They’d balled out of control his treat at the Casino in AC. He had the works, bottles and bottles of Moet and Henny. They drank like them peoples during Cinco de Mayo. It was a ball out affair. Until he passed the fucked out.

Terrance found himself wrestling with his mind. They were on the highway headed up towards Westchester and Connecticut. He loved this man but he knew he was gon kill him. As a boss, as that dude, as the sometimey Muslim with at least 6 so called wives, what he’d done was the violation. Terrance had let the liquor take him there that night in the Suite. He was happy Lock hadn’t wanted to find some bitches like they usually did on trips. This trip was different though, just the two of them. Lock looked like a modern day Mansu Musa in all his gold and diamonds and Louis Vuitton outfit. He was that dude from head to toe 6’4, 230lbs of hard cut 6years in the box and maintained muscles, adorned with the rosiest chocolatey color. The man was a living god. The piercing brown eyes framed by the heavy eyebrows, the beard, that rich beard, in the center these less than full but succulent lips. It had been sometime during the night when he woke up and found Lock sleeping on the bed.

And the faggot violated me. Ugh for how long he had no idea, Lock banged his hand against the steering wheel. It almost made him queasy again remembering the disgust. It was like he was one of them mooks upstate who’d been to party time in the block. They’d be passed around until their whole asshole had exploded. It was a grotesque scene. All of it, always. Lock remembered stirring feeling wetness and motion on his dick. His heart sunk to all kinds of low when he caught Terrance sucking him off. He was too enraged to speak, just commenced to beating the boy down with a fury of fists and kicks and spit and kicks and fists to every part of his body. He stopped short of killing him barely cause this hotel was just too elite, cameras everywhere, wasn’t no sense getting bagged that easy.

Terrance still felt those blows, felt the gashes on his face, was conscious of the broken blood vessels, was fairly confident that his smooth yellow complexion would never be Neutrogena clear again. He’d earned it. His kind always paid. He felt in many ways they had it worse than them open fags. They didn’t have to adhere to the myriad of codes governing men. They’d abandoned them. It was something bout that train of thought that got him stirring as they pulled into an abandoned factory lot just across the Connecticut border. It had started to snow and against the Long Island Sound, the whole ugly scene was beautiful, Terrance thought as the car pulled to a stop.

Lock said ” Yo get the fuck out”. He needed to hurry up and get it over with ,storm was posed to be a bitch. He watched his supposed to be future exit and sighed. He never imagined doing this.

Terrance felt surprisingly steady on his feet, despite the pain that ran through his body. The crisp air always did it. His back was still turned when he heard Lock’s door close. Terrance felt in front, the hardness taking him back to the memory.

Lock said “walk towards the gate “. The gate that led to the endless expanse of sky, lights twinkling in the distance of the City and Westchester and Long Island. The water black as night. The pink sky letting the white stuff fall. ” Aiight sto-“,Lock started before a shot rang out. Right in his gut, another caught him right in the chest. And he fell back happy and regretful of all those target practice lessons. I’d taught him well, Lock thought as he let the burning lead him towards hell.

Terrance had been able to keep his piece even after the ass whupping. Lock hadn’t been thinking , too caught up in the emotions, one of his lessons he hadn’t consulted. Terrance hobbled over to Lock and knelt down tears burning his eyes as the snow fell. The life faded exponentially fast from Lock who could only grimace as Terrance kissed him full on the lips. His hands were taking the jewels Lock would never need again. And Lock was gone by the time Terrence murmured,” I always loved you.”

On riding waves

I think that depression is a normal state of being. I think that it gets this energy behind it that calls for it to be fixed. The lows and the downs are made into problems that can be solved. I think that depression has value. I think that we underestimate how potent its’ value is. I think that in forcing happy , we all get that much more depressed. I think that it would be better if the concept of ‘riding the waves’ was more mainstream. Allowing the people, all the people, the poorest, most disenfranchised, shitted on people to feel those waves , to embrace them, to wear them like badges of sad fucking honor. They make it this way, the depression. Find yourself scrambling, find yourself gritting so hard to force a smile, force your body, your mind , your whole fucking disposition to be palatable to the cannibals who rip you whole. Who tell you cheer up, who quote Bible verses, who remind you that your pain and your suffering ain’t enough.

It sucks for it to suck. And sometimes you cry so much your head hurts and hurts and your whole body aches. And you want it away. Don’t want your crybaby swag. Don’t want to be that same punk-ass bitch whining about the same shit, over and over again. Know that no one cares. They all got their own problems. Hell even you over them, over those emotions, those piercing, thrusting, fucking in the a without vaseline, pulsing emotions. The ones that make you wail like a cow, waiting to be gutted, split up in pieces and pieces of problems and unfixed solutions. I think it’s best to let it dance upon you. Let it take you there, let it make you walk in the rain on those sunny days and say “fuck you , hit me harder”.

The Farming Of Bones, a review

The Farming of the Bones by Edwidge Danticat broke my heart as a read.Haiti and Haitian culture has always fascinated me. I have also had at times extensive interest in the DR as well. The book is told through the view of a young Haitian woman living in the Domincan Republic during the 1937 Parsley Massacre of Haitians and Afro Dominicans by Dominicans. Amabelle as she is known is the faithful maid, servant and midwife to a prominent Dominican army family whose life is torn upside down literally over the course of a day. I’ve read Ms. Danticat’s work previously and she always speaks with so much emotion, so much description, so much soul. She gives you pieces of Haiti and Haitian culture but retains enough detachment where you as a non Haitian presumably know you can never understand it all. All the many nuances and nicks of this rich culture. Her work is often painful and Farming of Bones is no different. It just reads so human. I think that is what she tries to convey often. Not a fantastical view, no special outer worldliness. The mundane , ordinary that moves people , that spurs us into action, the crazy situations we must navigate as life.

I had read about the Parsley Massacre previously and I have read much about the relationship between Haiti and the Dominican Republic. I am an outsider and so my opinion is rather irrelevant but damn if the DR doesn’t come off looking real fucked up sometimes. It can read as a very Rwanda-esque sort of situation ,people with so much cultural similarities, history and religion who have this ongoing never resolved beef. Unfortunately Haiti hasn’t been able to build itself up as much as its’ sister and it makes for a very tense situation ripe for exploitation and anti Blackness. That history is so prominent. All the violence, all the poverty, all the migrant situations are products of neo colonialism, of old colonialism and white supremacy by any means. You read the history and contemporary and people have to do better. That said ,capitalism, income disparity, entrenched fucked up systems allow these things to never change, for history to repeat itself. The othering of those without a voice allows their suffering to be in silence. May Haiti and all impoverished nations rise up ! The world has so much to learn from you , so many offenses that need to be reckoned with.

You wanna be me

You know what I can’t stand about you?

Your audacity to think you can ever do it like

me, to think you can ever be me

I’ll admit at first it was flattering , maybe even an homage

to the bad asses like me that you n ya ilk look towards

but then it was something in ya make up that turned the bile

i already had boiling when I knew what an awful creature you and yours

are. And i was happy to know often first hand how vile ya’ll is

and i clapped at your nasty demise

See it’s been sanctioned, been written in words indeed the Word

you’re beneath the turds you’d just as readily consume as the birds

You’ve no clue about our birds and bees could never know about this

honey pot i got that spew legends and seeds

you and yours know bout them STD’s and fissures, prolapses and bouts of sugar

in ya tank you stank piece of fake fish

ya verbiage like mine you steal I return to sender

Watch the drug induced demises and the bodies that get thinner

no more eyes to eye my prize like dinner

see cuz you a sinner cud never be a winner

This my thoughts when I see ya confused, foul ass

You’ll lose with ya fag ass

yea that word still apply

no application of fake shit rebranded as real

no matter your dresses or your heels

you still a man and I can never chill

evidence of failures and fucked up lineages

I can’t wait to dance at ya’ll funeral

Jesus is coming

Only white people get to be antiheroes

I just finished the latest season of You and I couldn’t help but wonder would the protagonist Joe have as much fortune if he was any other race but white. And of course I know without question even in fiction , only a white man can be a villain and hero at the same time . No other race can ever have that duality on screen or in any form of media. It mirrors real life very well with the entrenched cultural phenomenon of serial killers, school shootings, cult leaders, military generals etc. All these seemingly on the surface everyday Joe, Bob and Tyler’s who can be raving maniacs with an ax to grind against the whole world whose actions are endorsed by a society that only sees them as good and redeemable. Another American classic comes to mind, The Sopranos. Tony Soprano was dear to me as a cultural icon. I wanted Tony to win and supported him even when he showed his worst. Even though in real life a Tony Soprano might spit in my face as a Black transwoman. The man was a killer, a gangster, a thug but he was from the old neighborhood, lived in Suburban New Jersey and fully relished in all the privileges of white maleness. The latter attributes allows the viewers to empathize with his worst traits and to cheer him on in his utmost toxicity. Much like Joe from You, Tony is allowed to be who he is because of a society that endorses his existence. Even when we see these characters in action, killing, subverting social norms, perverting the darkest corners of the human mind, we’re made to see them as little boys almost. As generally good guys who do bad things.

Fiction has been said in many ways to mirror real life in certain respects. And all the imagery we see is always looking to advertise , promote and speak to an existence, someone’s views of life. Shows like You and Sopranos as entertaining and binge worthy as they are speak in so many ways the extent of white privilege. It says when white people do bad things or are bad people its for any number of ” understandable ” reasons(i.e. Joe’s background as a foster child, Tony as the offspring of the Mafia). I keep saying white people and not white men cause it’s a race exclusive phenomenon. White women benefit from this privilege as well. You can name any number of shows where there’s this white girl who is an outcast or has an axe to grind. And her motives are supported by the theory that she sits in righteousness(i.e. Jodie Foster The Brave One, Aileen Wuornos, the female leads in Money Heist).I can’t imagine in any of these films or shows a Black person or persons being cast and presented as redeemable, as having reasons that make such rash actions appropriate. I can’t imagine Hispanics or Asians or Native Americans either able to be serial killers, thieves, vigilantes, serial psychopaths and still giving a redemption arc. And you can bet your ass in any such depiction there’d be some white savior who will fight endlessly to catch and kill these predators. That savior may even employ unorthodox methods but you can bet that villain or villainess of hue will be caught and dealt with expeditiously. Maybe that needs to change. Cause if anyone has beefs that aren’t ever resolved, if anyone has suffered more than their share, if anyone should have a reason to be mad as fuck beyond soothing it shouldn’t be those who have whole systems entrenched in their name and imagery. Hell I’ll even take an LGBT villain or antihero. Someone who sticks it to the system and doesn’t bow down to an other status. An outlaw who says fuck the rules, who actually survives , whose life just being an other has more than bestowed a reason to be against the system.

Oakland, a rebuttal

Oakland is a whole feeling. This is what I thought when my Bart train emerged from the other side and showed me the first sights of what used to be a mythical creature. It differs profoundly from San Francisco which is strange for a New Yorker like me. Like Manhattan, Bronx and Brooklyn are all very different boroughs yet through the city and even beyond there’s a NYC spirit, a pace, a mood that I’d expect to find in a place like the Bay Area. And I was surprised that it wasn’t there. Where San Francisco seems to exist as a city of cities, Oakland seemed like a big ass neighborhood of neighborhoods.

My main objective for going to Oakland was simply to see the city, to be in a city known for its Blackness, its place as a center of liberal Blackness, Blackness as a force in a region heavily interested in immersion and erasure. My first stop off the Bart took me to the African American museum and library 659 14th St, Oakland, CA . The entirety of the second floor was dedicated to Black history in the Bay area. There were sections devoted to a specific cultural facet or period. I was emotional when I saw the vast doll display , dolls from the early 20th century till about the 1980s or so. The dolls said so much about time you know. They belonged to someone, a small Black child who lived in say 1940 and to know that this doll was once cherished by someone who may be elderly or already departed. Time is fleeting . And it says a lot about Black people as parents and caretakers, people literally fleeing to stay alive, toiling under the worst conditions, lives full of trauma and they gave their kids toys and dolls to retain some form of childlike innocence and joy. The dolls were also impactful because there was a separate exhibit that focuses on the Doll Test of the 40s when sociologists went to a Black school and asked Black kids whether they preferred white dolls or black dolls. The findings were that overwhelmingly the Black kids chose the white doll over the black doll. They also equated negative stigma with the Black doll. If ever one wanted to understand white supremacy and the ongoing legacy of Racism in this country just ask the children. I left a note in the Reactions box in which I said it would be interesting to conduct such a study nowadays and to see what the findings would be.

The rest of the floor was just as memorable. Black folks have been in the Golden state since Spanish colonization. There is a history of waves of Black folks coming to the Bay Area especially during World War 2. But there is even a significant presence in the 19th century. Those who came West seemed to have an industrious air about themselves, there was bustling Black communities on both sides of the Bay but after World War 2 Oakland reigned supreme over San Francisco as a hub in the Bay Area for Black people. It made me proud to see the exhibits and reaffirms my position of history being such a fantastic source of inspiration. People struggling and surviving and thriving. The exhibit on the Black Panthers, my heroes, encouraged/ inspired me to find the site of the first place where the party was founded, 5624 Grove street which has now become 5624 Martin Luther King. I set out from the museum and walked through the streets of Oakland. Google Maps estimated it would be like a 50 minute walk just perfect for my forever wanting to walk self.

I was grateful for how much flatter Oakland was . At least the part that I seemed to be in. The working class blocks of vast architectural styles was peak Bay Area. It shares that deserted feeling California seems to have. Very few people walk around. Everyone drives. California’s tent city culture is out of control. And as I write that I realize how loaded of a statement that is , what it implies and that whole thing of not commenting on what you’re unable to fix. I guess it’s just jarring to walk through a city in one of the richest states and see people, so many people living in tents. I grew to understand when I’d approach an overpass to expect to see huddles of tents. I walked through feeling like an intruder and a kindred spirit at once. I too, was once homeless. People who live in those kinds of conditions are reminders to me that it can happen again and you never know where it can end up. It’s so easy to judge . That said I was reinvigorated on my walk when I stopped in Marcus Bookstore. The red, black and green and it being a bookstore commanded me to enter. To support . To get a feel of a place that is definitely on the endangered list. It is radical to exist in America as a center for learning for Black folks, for us and by us. I learned from the beautiful sistas that owned the shop , that the shop was 60 years old. I was so taken by that news. And I wanted so much to kiss that ground. I can’t even begin to imagine all the kernels of education and pride and enrichment that passed through those doors. That knowledge our people desperately need to survive this camp.

I continued up MLK till I reached 5624 and saw nothing. The space looked like a mini strip mall with some restaurant and other non descript buildings but nothing declaring that this was the site of the Baddest group to ever shake up these United States, the Black Panthers. I was incredulous by this find but then again it makes sense. Cause to commemorate the Panthers would be in their mind a glorification of their hate. Cause that’s how they frame Black pride and Black self love, hate of them. It’s why the rebuttal to Black Lives Matter is All lives Matter and why calls for accountability for cops begs the “What about Black on Black crime?. I rest my case exhaled in the moment and reflected on the legacy of The Panthers. It made me feel a bit more secure in my feeling in a hood that wasn’t mine , in a city and state where I’m a stranger. It was on this site all them years ago ,Black people stood up and said : We’re people too. I continued up MLK into Berkley, did not know they bled into each other where I caught the Path train to downtown Oakland and stopped at the Original Chicken and waffle house. I got an order to go and went to the Ferry back to San Francisco. Oakland as the antidote , the rebuttal , the glue of the Bay Area. The whole region gleams with beauty and profound ugly as well. Those were my thoughts as I left Oakland and sailed to San Francisco.

Anton

Where you get that smile Anton?

The one you flash fiercely and fear me

fool me with its’ loveliness

You all majestic and shit

corny true but that’s how it be when i see you

hitting me at the latest hours, always rushed and tensed

you beat my ass how i deserve it. i mean i do but i don’t

slow down ,me wish you don’ rush Jamaican boy you

Ya wicked grins begin as we commence on ,loving and lusting

our people’s ultimate sin. We ain’t right, don’t wanna win

I but a little cherry in your battle ground day

you work all fucking day , all night too it seem

but for the pussy your energy go hard, dexterity on a 10

We rastling and slamming and booming and bamming

and you plow ,plow , plow you cow of a bitch take this bull’s nut

and savor the wicked acid of Anton’s milk

you ain’t slick , me know it’s more than the dick

me see ya games, me no play

Its not like that weakly ya clap back

i return to work beat ya ass another day

What more can me say?

He smiles , she smiles back

She sees and he don’t

She pleased little, forever she want

And she never say no even when I know she could

And he never give up

And that’s understood

Stop putting hopes

in finished pieces

Throw them Depressed Bitches Away

Hate ya fucking ass

hate ya fucking ass

screwed up, blazing eyes

five seconds from tears

relentlessly locked in , catching wind

no desire to be friends

wanna punch you in the face

and spit in it cause you got me hot

leave me the fuck alone

Aint I human enough to be mad?

to be sad , to not wake up ear to ear shining

to wake up exhausted and lost it. lost it . lost it

Drained in my darkness, its comforting to be away from the bright ass

glare and jeers and fears and other down bitches make me cheer

cause I know it’s real, there’s substance, it doesn’t possess the artifice of happy

They fuck you up every day, initiate your self flagellate and congratulate

your failures to be great, to be a statistic and an eye sore, your daily a gore fest

designed to consume and to exude and to lose and to be the bad guy , the fool.

Bruises, scars, fissures and tears, hit with punches, slaps , lies and fears

its been ages , its been years , time to accept the waves, the tight waves that ripple and

roast, extinguished hope

You can’t throw them depressed bitches away