I was walking home from the coffee shop tonight and thinking about the poem I will read at the next poetry brothel. realized in the past month I’ve written four angry black man poems. Then I was thinking which angry black man poem will I read. I have an idea. But found it odd I had written so many. And in such a short amount of time. I was thinking I also have written poems (don’t know the specific number there) about my interactions with the opposite sex. Sexually emotionally and otherwise. Not sure how this contrast works. But it will.
I have a odd sleep pattern and one night a poet friend of mine called me to tell me a meditation method. It worked. And I was knocked the fuck out. That night I had a dream we were both forced to jump in lake michigan. At night. At gun point. I can’t swim. I’ve written about this twice now.
I can’t find my purple pen. Which normally would annoy me especially since purple was has haunting me for the past few months. But since poetry is orange it’s ok. I want an orange pen. But I don’t think I would be able to read that on the paper. I think I’ll write in blue instead. I dated a girl with blue eyes once. I could see her eyes in the dark. Which was odd at first. But I adjusted.
Before orange. Before purple. It was hands. Those of you who have met me. Know me. Think about how many times have I actually touched your hands. I just have a thing with them. They’re so intimate. You can bump a stranger in an elevator or in a crowded store no problem. But hand someone a cup and brush there hand and there is an immediate apology. Plush racoons have creepy little hands that can drown dogs. I’ve think I’ve written about this before. Moving on.
Back to the pen. Back to orange.
I’m done with the comma and will probably be done with the capital letter and apostrophe soon (notice how I didn’t capitalize michigan earlier). Being a black writer though if I lower case the “i” it will be seen as me making some sort of statement about the self and language and blah blah blah. But in reality. I’m kind of just done with them. There purpose is arbitrary.
here’s a story. a fox named swift and a pixie named roxy. and they run up buildings. live in waves. sew dresses with the skin of plums. sleep. love stone. sleep. love stones.
Acutualy if I got rid of the periods they’re would be no point for them either. The spaces make a statement. But I like the period still. Apostrophes later. Moving on.
I found a poem I had written in grad school about being black. The first two lines are “I was told I’ve already written about being black/and I should write about something I know.”
I had forgotten about that. But that happened.
I saw Avery shut the studio down last night with one of my favorite pieces by him. It’s below. This is from last year. But he shuts the studio down mos def.