It must be magic. I spent the later part of my Saturday going through various parts of West Oakland with my friend ChakaZ, each one unraveling like a paining. Already in an altered state once I got into the car, I decided that this night would be a “good one”. I didn’t care how many hipsters were on the floor, we would go in and let have. 10 minutes of explaining my non-profit volunteering and the beauty of Black community later and we were outside of a small café that promised to have a banging funk party on the inside. Before we left though we exchanged other tales. She told me of her mystic night, full of beautiful womyn, men who looked like Basquiat, affirmations and some serious moonlight. In exchange I spoke about the novel I plan to write and together we hatched small schemes of art and revolution. Indeed the place was full of hipsters inside and not the best funk music one could find. However, I am learning to let life lead you. In no time one of her co-workers showed up and along with his friend we took the floor. The rest of this tale is far too long for me to type and I’m ok with that because this was just an introduction. I haven’t written on here in a while and I wanted to come back, with a poem. This night was very important to me because I have been very upset lately about my positioning in life and failures to live up to certain things that are expected of me as well as situations that are beyond my control and always have been. I recently broke down and cried about all of this and another friend, Sycorax, began to talk about what we owe ourselves. She spoke about how we have always lived with ourselves and that we owe the child in us a piece of happiness. That resonated very deeply. This poem is dedicated to my Saturday night, and to new beginnings. Lets see where this will lead us:
SOME SERIOUS MOONLIGHT
It feels odd to speak of things in the abstract after they have happened.
Like saying your love is a shawl that I wish to wrap myself in and prance with.
Or how I wish a friend would lower himself deeply into me.
Hold me and heal me.
And it’s especially strange to think that in a world where bombs drop so frequently.
Where starvation is commonplace.
Where millions don’t see light.
Where the rich desire to strangle all our useful labor from us.
Where I can grow 23 years and not recognize the sound of my own voice.
In this world it figures strange that I would have such joy in one night.
That your shoulder would mean peace
Your laughter bring solace
Indeed it is a strange and abstract thought to ponder
That in a world like this I would be blessed with a friend like you.
Carrying some serious moonlight in your eyes.