Tag Archives: thoughts

Glass Cases

usher box

We are the children of glass blowers.
Hands clasped together.
Knees touching the earth
That taught them how
To birth things that grow,
beat fruit, and give to others,
until they die.
Glass blowers whose wishes
to the Carpenter
that sits on high
become part and parcel promises,
pieces to glass cases
covering us in grace.

We pieces of wonder,
memories of times past
longing for tomorrow to come.
We be knick knack,
admirable qualities draped
on mannequins.
We be fine china,
snapshots of happy and unsure,
things none has had
or that others have had but
no longer want.

We sit on thrones,
in tombs,
on cross wood,
in prisons.
The plate at the bottom
holds the names we are given
bur may or may not have earned.
It sits there until replaced
by numbers, a dash, and
remembrances rewritten
by guilt and could have beens.

When you see me
those are not bruises.
They are smudges
I pray the next caretaker
will Windex clean.
What’s here is priceless
but closed off.
They key is in my eyes.
Too many have fiddled
with my lock of a tongue
to never get close enough
to know the inner me.
Some have tried the smash
and grab,
but my mother has
unwavering faith.
She has prayed and cried
until the vision of me is
but doesn’t protect
from the trauma of seeing
the attempts come and go.

When your purpose and destiny,
worth and wisdom,
aptitude and ability,
Is on display.
You learn what gaze
Feels like.
You learn that gawkin
is a seductive
That sometimes presence
isn’t possibility,
it’s momentary possession.
Without the key
it’s just an exhibition.

You and me,
we know these glass cases.
These cursed gifts
of safe distance and deniability.
We know too many living rooms
we never considered home,
too many bedrooms
we never felt completely comfortable in.
We have felt trapped in hallways
where people seem to eager
to pass our pain by.
Know too well that shrines
can be adored or despised
but still left to dust or decay.

We be held on to
for others to enjoy.
We be window shopping fantasy.
We be one day I’ll be able
to get that.
We be look what I captured.
We be look.
Look at that.
Come here look at this.
Look now.
Look later.
Walk past and never look at all.

We be here.
Help up by divinity,
shielded by hope
for all the world
to see

Gentrification of Identity


You don’t tear a person down and rebuild them with intent on something better. That’s what they do to black and brown neighborhoods. Why would you do it to a person?

Talk this way, walk this way, wear these clothes…

Why is there never recognition of the special in each person?

Why do we toss away self determination for impression?

Sanitization has been a thorn in our side for too long. Do we not recognize it’s effects?

Why not add to what is there. Teach value in authentic self and the importance of widening scope. Foster adaptability not assimilation.

Signs – A new poem



She said she enjoyed suspense
Looked me in my eye
It took every thing in me not to run
Because hesitation
Is often a respectful and compassionate billboard
Letting you know that what you need
Might be waiting at the next exit
But I don’t heed warnings well
I’m not too good with signs

Like the one
Neon lit between her lips
Juke joint juxtaposed
With the temptation on the tip of his tongue
He made her want to discover the poet inside her
But the time between inspiration and insatiable
Can come and go so quick

That by the time she realized
The truth of the poet inside her
They’d both lied
Her still laying
With tears in her eyes
Him with new conquests in his eyes
I wished I had known before I booked him
For the show

I understand though
Optimism can become desert deceit
When you’ve become parched
Since the last wet taste
Facing decisions like segregated designations
Marriage like bright light over horizon
Indulgence like dark degradation
Seems like white only and colored only
Water fountains

Hallucinations can happen
When Road Closed
Look like Rest Stop Ahead
Have you crash test dummy desperately
Diving into accidental embraces

I’m no better
Show me a danger zone

And I see an area under construction
An optimistic land developer
Who’s been an indecisive bulldozer for too long
Never knowing whether to dig or bury
I’ve got a hard hat and a lunch box
Because it’s a long days work being this beautifully broken
Fenced into construction sites
With lovers wearing orange vests and steel toe boots
Then wondering why all I have are stories
of things falling apart

Ask me if I can memory a blueprint of love working
I’ll answer
What examples do I have of building to completion,
Joyous occupancy, effective and efficient maintenance
Death and divorce has robbed me of a semblance
Of certainty that it’s possible
So I’m making it up as I go along
Plans are just pages of passionate principles
But no context
It’s all imagination
Dammit I’m drawing this shit in crayon

Life is just a School Zone
Full of lessons
A roadway full of decisions
and speed limits
A lot with instructions
to Park in Designated Spaces Only
I’ve paid a lot of fines
Learned a lot from my experiences

But I’m gone be ok
God granted the peace
that likes to dress up as patience
and play trick or treat with elitists and enigmas
It’s just a matter of reading the signs
Out for lunch
They’re just all defense mechanisms
Just steps along the path to being comfortable
Open 24hrs A Day

That’s why I’m good at doing this work
Service entrance above my apartment door
Where the exit sign should be
Means I signed up when I step out
To face the day
Even though my choice got me asking questions
Like why me
When them others got diamond encrusted
Out of Order pieces
Wood carved Out for Repairs medallions
We Reserve the Right to Refuse tshirts
And Try Back Later four finger rings

But I tried to turn my back on my calling
God taped a kick me sense of responsibility
to my back
Now I bear the weight of the world
Between my shoulder blades
And spend my days
With life’s foot in my ass
Trust me, I got the message

See there’s no turning back
Once the door has closed behind you
Your vision, beliefs, and sense of purpose
Waiting on the other side
Every day in the world is a meeting
With the primary stockholders of all that you are
They knew the best course of action was going public
Too late to say you aint ready
When it plainly said
Authorized personnel only

I just answer the call
I’ve tried to manipulate my destiny
That a gated community
Can quickly become a prison yard
That when the hands of the clock
Begin to believe they dictate the time
It will be too late
When they realize they are outnumbered

She said she enjoyed suspense
I’m looking for what’s suspended in her eyes
Then let the moment pass by
With no reply
Because hesitation
Is often a respectful and compassionate billboard
Letting you know that what you need
Might be waiting at the next exit
But I don’t heed warnings well
And I’m not too good with signs

Back on my blog again….


Hey, if they can find another reason to make a “Taken” movie, then I can keep coming back to my blog from sabbatical. This time I hope to maintain a steady stream of content. Facebook became my refuge for my thoughts, but here is where my thoughts should play. It is here that they should run free across fields of thought. Ha, you should have seen that one coming.

So I am back with the new year to bring more shenanigans and randomness. The blog will be getting some stylistic upgrades soon. I will be rolling out new branding and the blog will get some of that goodness. Stay tuned. I have a few things to tell you about. So lets have some fun!

I’m back



Forgetting the Pain in 6 Steps


I gave my poetry students this prompt as a opening freewrite. I decided to take it on as a prompt myself. I feel that we are often inundated with models of recognition and awareness, but what happens after that? How do you move on? What does the day after look like? These were my thoughts as I took on this prompt.

Flood the lost colony of your skin in soap and water
Ignore the screams of follicles
Prayers by pores will go ignored
Draw a new nation with fluffy cotton towel
Make it an aberration
Frame it in the mirror
Play music
Claim it empire
Mark this moment in history on the pages of your smile

Draw roses on the sidewalk in chalk
With smiley face in the middle
Call it abstract impressionism
Believe in the possibility
That you can reach the otherside of struggle
With a smile on your face
And wisdom in full bloom
Take pictures of them
Post them
Call them selfies

Draw names on pieces of paper
Make them all the people who’ve hurt you
Ball the pieces up
Throw them into plastic trash can
Pour kerosene in it
Set it on fire
Then watch the trash can melt
Remind yourself this could have been you
This is the value of exorcism

Forgive yourself 

Buy legos
Set aside 2 hours
Bake cookies
Pour a glass of wine
Play music
Then spend the time learning
To put the pieces back together
With sharpie 
Label each block
Career, hope, goals, pride, friendships, faith
Practice the variations
Use super glue

Laugh again
In that order
Record it all on your phone
Call yourself documentarian
Watch it to remember you are human
Take pride in the happy ending
Then know that you can overcome

Topps (An Anaphora)


40to40: 40 posts for 40 days until turning 40

You owe
There is no family
There is no team
There is no association
There is no thought of fans
There is no room
You owe
There is no tomorrow
There is no understanding
There is no blue collar headband to wear
There is only one option
You owe
There is no assistance
There is no need
There is only you
There is no ripple effect
There is no collateral damage
There is only now
You owe
There is no precedence
There is precedence, but no room for updates
There is no real memory of how
There is a false sense of yesterday
There is no tomorrow
There is now
You owe
There is no uniform
There is no sock black enough
There is no care for what you offer
There is no thought to who you inspire
There is only one way
There is only one goal
There is only angst to answer to
There is only pomp and circumstance, no plan
You owe
You owe
There is a price
There is no concrete answer to how much
There is no possibility of getting one
There is only a belief that
You owe

“Sunday in Durham”

I tear stanzas

Joy written along my cheeks

You restored my faith

Affirmed my conviction

There is something pure in your midst

An unspoken incantation

Spell pulled from notebooks

From phones

This extra terrestrial feels home

There is burden with lit finger

Pointing out the holes in humanity

Picnic basket on bike

Could mean there is a lynching soon

Or innocence showing strange fruit

The beauty of the moon

But I don’t have discern purpose here

I just have be here


I have friends here

Peers here

Peering into souls

Who work well with the word

Have faith in the word

I was blessed to be where the word was heard

Great grandmama said that ring shout

Fed her spirit

This cypher feeds my Hunger

A feast of fellowship

Big mama cooked up the right weather

Served it on a Sunday evening

I’m giving away the big piece of chicken

Fear has no place here

I feel in place here

There is joy written on my face here

I tear stanzas

They are the most wonderful tears

I have ever cried