ceremonies that we has

 

i was very conscious in mah choice to spend the night with with you

cause i coulda been in mah own bed- where monsters only come out if i want them too an’ flowers is paths to places i kept locked in mah mind an’ i can roll around in mah own sheets cause they’re mine and i like owning them that way. 

but yes, i was very conscious in that choice.

cause its a delicate thing to lay with someone an’ hear them breath- listen to their being caught between worlds of different makings an’ observe the movements their chest makes, an’ wonder about where they are- if your lips are there with them, or if they’re happy constructing universes 

i did that, i made mah choice. an’ i is glad that that night was us

cause it was a new moon- an’ i had water out for intention, an’ mah room wasn’t as clean as i like it to be on the beginning of a new cycle, an’ mah heart still needs to process but i is glad for us. cause we started this new cycle digging up dirt, an’ planting seeds, an’ drinking whiskey an’ playin cards. mhmm. we did. 

 

 

confessions and guarantees

i can confess to movings made in lust 

and weakness.

i can say that i 

have been apart of the sea of silhouettes in longing

and that i’ve been one, under the moon, with loneliness in my eyes.

him is someone distant

someone who may not come through at all

show up at all…

what has been given to me is myself 

and so, with moon water made, im finding pieces left throughout boulevards

and i ain’t as well put together as i used to be

and thats colored in some small kind of sadness

but i can barely notice in moonlight cause it colors different.

im finding pieces left throughout boulevards 

that is new.

 

 

 

Poems for life’s sake: “February” by Augustinho Neto

ah believe that art is meant to compliment the spirit- to nourish it and to fuel it- make it new and ready to withstand the challenges brought on in Babylon. Our oppression is layered and intense- it can feel like something mighty overwhelming. ah often feel overwhelmed- lost and torn into thousands of pieces. in art- words, sounds and images i feel direction and comfort. expression speaks a soul language and has been a powerful tool in the movements of oppressed people because it taps into our cores- our very spirits. and when the body feels tired, it is the spirit that gives that push. our ideology, passion and communities will bring us survival and victory in this life. ah believe that and our art must reflect that otherwise it is rather pointless to me. here is an inspirational and revolutionary poem written in the midst of the Angolan Revolution. the Angolan struggle for independence began in 1961 on Feb 2nd and this work pays honor to that. Neto would later serve as president of the new Angola.

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -

FEBRUARY – AGOSTINHO NETO

It was then the Atlantic

in the course of time

gave back the carcasses of men

swathed in white flowers of foam

and in the victims’ boundless hate,

brought on waves of death’s congealed blood

And the beaches were smothered by crows and

jackals with a bestial hunger for the battered flesh

on the sands

of the land, scorched by the terror of centuries

enslaved and chained,

of the land called green

which children even now call green for hope.

It was then that the bodies in the sea

swelled up with shame and salt

in the course of time

in blood-stained waters

of desire and weakness.

It was then that in our eyes, fired

now with blood, now with life, now with death

we buried our dead victoriously,

and on the graves made recognition

of the reason men were sacrificed

for love,

for peace,

even while facing death, in the course of time,

in blood-stained waters

And within us

the green land of San Tome

will be also the island of love.

Not Fade Away

Not Fade Away.

selflessness

ah desire to
speak in the language of flowers
to know what soft kisses in wind are
and what it means to give pollen to the world
and never once ask for things in return.

and in that selflessness

ah desire for something to hold on to
made of labor and spirit
and something sweet too. 
opening every so often with light 
and love.

liberal movings.

we

are the only things on this planet

capable of thinking just for ourselves

we cut trees,

bleed oil,

and rape diamonds.

our fingers pulling at earth waist

undoing bows

and bedding.

leaving shit and sheets on the floor

uncleaned. 

we write “save trees” on dead trunks

and call ourselves saviors 

hips

you told me that your hips only knew sad songs

and swayed something slow

i reached anyways

held them to see for myself

and it felt nice

like my hands were made to sit there.

if sorrow comes

then it will and, pa, thats that.

for right now- lets smile on what flesh we got.

and moon together

exhale and love. 

things that we had.

there is things that we had

which ain’t ‘preciated.

they is monuments erected throughout

twisting pieces of metal

soul

and intention

made for beauty

and forgotten in the rush of things

i walked past all the time

never once holding they images

or committing the portrait of them living in moonlight to memory

and its a crying thing.

or ought to be.

to never be able to remember something so meaningful.

sun poem (for marcus.)

and we were

two suns.

and it was strange-

impossible, that we would inhabit the same space 

at the same time.

and it was inevitable-

the collapse of the systems around us.

They, after all, were never able to hold such an amount of light.

but i’m still sad

that all i have of our time is some faint memories of warmth. 

on reading me.

i am not a book

to be read at the whim of others.

even my tattered pages-

which sometimes fly from the binding involuntarily –

deserve respect.

if my words are found open,

then please return them unread.

it will mean so much more when i speak them to you.

i promise.