Broken Roots Reclaimed

Since I've gotten back from the campout, I've been in a bit of a funk. The apartment's a mess, I have almost nothing and well...I haven't actually *made* anything (written or otherwise) for over a month. It's kind of cool in a weird depressing way to know that creation is so ingrained in me I actually get moody if I'm not making something.

Went out with Ryngs and Arlekin to ROTCI after work, even though I was supposed to start clearing the bedroom and stuff. That was still cool, though; I tossed out a description for a room or two I'm working on for a MUCK, and a poem, too. I felt myself slipping back into that writing groove after the initial trepidation...the hardest part of starting anything is taking that first step, right?

2 and Delphi came over, and we toasted to Delphi's unexpected foray into con staffing. I'm pretty happy for him, this is something he's wanted to do for a long time...and it's such a big step, too. He deserves it, though.

Not much more to report, picked up the Russian workbooks I got and read a little...I'm still fuzzy on the Cyrillic alphabet, but the more I read up on it the more of it I'll remember. I should probably start some kind of regular study time, but that'll have to wait until I get the house together.

I haven't posted poetry here in a while, so I guess I will. I've been thinking a lot about my childhood, and growing up black and what that actually means to me. For some reason, it's come into focus and balance a lot more recently, and I feel all the more whole for it. Anyway, if th poems seem race-oriented, it's because they are. :)

*******
A Broken Cycle Complete

The broken child
screams a thousand angry red lines
on lined white paper.
She bleeds for her mother.
Twelve years old
in seventh grade
and the blindness of age
already moves over her like the affectations
of an unwanted uncle
covering the bright blindness of childhood.
We were all blind, in some respect.
She's mistaken new blinders
for new eyes.

Seventeen.
A senior who has no flowers,
she says she ain't going to the prom.
She wears big and clunky black boots
and dyed black hair
with matching fingernails and lipstick.
She says she's rebelling
against duty
and social stagnancy
and the President
and bubble-gum.
She wants to call dark stars from her eyes
not ever really knowing
where she misplaced them.

The broken woman
bleeds red streams on the carpet
screaming in the names of God
but actually
she bleeds for her daughter.
Twenty-seven years old
a master's degree in literature
a librarian's assistant
She's up on stage
trying to communicate the view
from inside her eyelids.
She's gonna put blinders on her baby
and everything's going to be OK
She's gonna put blinders on her baby
and then she'll call it love

******

Reclaming

I can see why you'd like the word
It rolls off the tongue like sin
bumping around inside your palate like a cancerous hot potato
you know you've been smoking for years
electric, isn't it?
That forbidden little thrill you get
whenever you push your tongue up against the roof of your mouth
knowing you're about to utter the unspeakable
that one bench-clearing, bar-brawling thing
that's instant death to every melanin-deprived individual
You want to call me by name, don't you?
Go ahead.
I am the Oreo that stays hard in milk.
I am your Uncle Thomas
who refuses to leave long after
the Christmas party has ended
So go ahead and call me, boy
I'm all that and more
nigger
nigger
it's my word
to do what I want with
and now I'm blessing you
to do the same.

******

Roots

A single flower
strewn against a checker tablecloth
red and green on red and white
a little bit of cotton showing through
like an aunt's forbidden Sunday slip
that kept wanting to cover
the tops of her rolled-up knee-highs
a big pitcher of iced tea
with lemons trapped under cubes
just like in the commercials
when the light hit it just right
you remember it driving down the highway
some twenty years later
dragonflies and ladybugs
lightning bugs and mosquitoes
Aunt Poochie and Uncle Junior
Brother Gaye and Sister Bony
all traffic cones for running children
one big greasy grill
dripping hot dogs and hamburgers
and white, white bread
on green grass and grey-brown dirt
I remember wind with the kiss of night
and the moon that took hours to tuck you in
and the old porch light that filled air with electric
and cheap linen sheets that hid worlds between
the room and your toes
cool leather that turned hot
by the time you had that last candy rose
from your cousin's single-layer wedding cake
funerals that were homegoing celebrations
and even the death was full of life
this is where I've come from
a land of eternal summertime
and homemade fried chicken