little Black boy

This following video upset me. All I could do was write.  Below is what I wrote

little Black boy

Baby boy.  My son, my brother, my family.

I’m sorry that you have become this sausage case version of yourself.

Full of scraps society can’t digest and so they fed them to you.

My son.

My child.

The one whom I have avoided birthing because of the plague we would both become.

I, an unwed mother and leech on this system…


The one that does not work and continues to try.

The cogs and wheels churning, burning for the young she’s, he’s, ze’s, and hirs who cannot hear the slow ticking of brokenness.

The problematic sound warning you that it will fall.  That it will break. That it can’t take the weight while we wait for our current state to change.

To shift.

To give us this gift, of utopia.

And so it bleeds.

The blood of little Black boys and little Black girls while everyone else watches.

Scarred at the sight and yet drinking the juice from this machine — embracing the system while you my little Black boy become a parasite.

Containing no knowledge of your own just sucking that which keeps you alive.

You consume.

No one taught you the beauty of your contributions because they are afraid of your voice.

Your words. Your perspective. So unique and important.

If you were permitted the chance to speak, your tongue would lash mountains and command them to your feet.

Your knees would kneel to pick them back up again.

Your soul. Oooh, your soul would envelope our toxicity and make us whole as we cleanse ourselves in your forgiveness.

We have done you wrong my little Black boy, but thank you for trying to make right while feeling and being so wronged.

and so we persist

I went to see Allen Stone perform at the Paramount Theatre in Seattle, Washington last night. The following is what I wrote sitting on the floor near the back of the theatre with my journal pages illuminated by my cell phone.  It’s disjointed, and I almost didn’t post it.  I, however, need to stop waiting to publicize perfection and instead share the pursuit.

“Sitting in this corner feeling so small. Drinking this city in before my cup becomes dry and I toss it out.  Filling my final time with experiences so I can remember I’ve been here.  I lived here. I existed in the glorious city. I persisted in this glorious city. 

There are silhouettes that outline my gobo-ed horizon.  We are silhouettes and you are visions of beauty.  The needlepoint stilettos click past and I sit, a bit in judgment, but mostly in admiration.  You’ve created a sculpture of yourself for people like me to observe.  Not for me, but I sneak a glimpse nonetheless. You grasp his arm extending yourself and completing a broader more beautiful structure.  This horizon I dare not defile with the filtered effects of media measured in grams.  There is beauty in your hand holding. 

I’d forgotten, however, that we don’t travel for the same reasons.  I need this place as a refuge, a reminder, and you need to be entertained.  Clinging to the corner I steal glimpses of you cameras don’t get to see.  The simpler moments.  The ones you ignore fascinate me.  There is intimacy in these stolen stitches of time.  The glimpses therein are consolation to me that it is not just I who traverse this existence alone.  You are more able to hide the hammer that smashes our sentience in a crowd of two or more.  These musically mingled masses terrify the thought of me.  But my physical manifestation continues to step over that pissed puddle of fear to a different yet equally level plane of existence.

When the lights come up, the lights come out.  Poses stricken to document that this was attended and they existed.  We all persist exist in different grades bouncing from one another in different manifestations.  Yet we’ve all come to celebrate our differences in the company of one man and his complementary breath, lyrics plucking our heartstrings differently, but plucking all the same. The bass line beating against me, my heart kissing back. His carbon monoxide breathes life into our plant matter.  Dressed like peacocks to impress another or impress ourselves.  Reminding ourselves that we persist enough.  And yet, why do we need this reminder?  This place our Walden Pod, this time our Tardis. Isolating us long enough to recognize our surroundings. Transporting us back as often as we require. Our breath not enough of a reminder we find ourselves in experiences with others alone. But never alone.”