It might be time for a shape shift moment. This kernel of time, wedged between the walls Of two more standardized realities Only points us backwards on the path Of forward growth. You can write your own poem – This one holds out hope for a revival And a different direction for our dreams.
Old ways benefited the chosen few. Their poets and prophets sing of better Days to come. They have playwrights and Netflix Producers on the job around the clock, Promising to protect the status quo. I can’t say I wish them ill. Their vision Is a museum object, best preserved, mute.
Reflections on listening to a podcast about Afropessimism (because the author’s book tour was cancelled)
Can I tell you something? A deep secret? I am exhausted by your shallowness And as of this morning at 7AM I will no longer give a good goddamn What you think about my talent and skill As a bureaucrat. What about yours? Where is your tact? Your sense of fairness? Your appreciation for the art form? I have a fairly good, if wicked notion What you are thinking when you see my face – My black face that does not apologize When undermining your hypocrisy. Fuck all this. I’m going to work TODAY. Keep six feet away from me. Wash your hands.
A lovely homemade thing From a far off distant land, Woven with yarn and lace: A cushion steadies my coffee cup A pad where the mouse can rest. How’d you know it’d be so useful? A treasured gift of grace – A token that holds a place – Folded carefully in the liquor bar drawer between the shot glasses and candles, the napkins and cork replacements. Woven with yarn and lace – A lovely homemade thing, From a far off distant land.