Me in Oakland

I think it will rain. But it's just fog. I think it's fog. But it's just smoke.

What have I done:
--went to my goddaughter's birthday party, she's one -- unbelieveable
--went to the Dyke March in SF
--went to breakfast in Berkeley
--went to temple service at Ile Orunmila Oshun
--at in Emeryville
--went to bed at 7pm PST! UGH!

Trying to relight my pilot.

Teach for Hysteria: The Next Last Poet

This, from my student, Tianna, on the vicissitudes. printed here with her permission.

Tianna G.

misconceptions of me
in general misconceived thoughts of you
love is detrimental to our health
detriment and animosity go hand in hand
misconceiving thoughts of a childhood well spent.
the intricate molds that loses
laughter is our medicine
us amongst the midst of persuasive,
jokes are our cure
promiscuous, prompting individuals
fastidious amounts to intelligence,
lies are our sickness
intellectuall matters are best
secrets are our disease
left to the dogs
being metacognetive led to being a fool
i might as well do this before i
fools amongst fools is normal
fade completely
fools amongst genius is a riot
who is tianna latrice
every person knows a lonely feeling
we count our
lucky stars to say we did
falling from heights makes me invincible
but holding on made me seen
swinging from dreams means
we are conceited because we
are assured they will hold us

sincerely and forever yours Tianna

ps i decided that my heart is forever going to be art and writing so therefore when i am to old to be tianna i swear to you and myself that i will always write no matter were i am and how i am but something has got to change for better or worse so i am leaving this poem as Tianna's final will and testament because only angels go to heaven the sky is not the limit your mind and imagination is the limit when ever you think of me think of this angel blowing kisses BYE.

open hand

write me something, won't you? halfway between here and forgetting, a sweet breeze, not a slap against the time time time of the extended face. the next verse won't be about large, or pantheons, or gorilla genes; the best is saved for the lonely, the fragment, twice shorn in glass and bereft.

the orphan crying in a train station under a hood. something smiles with sails and tatters. a house stripped to its bones. oh, good bye, they are calling, a tres bien tot.

Finally

I never told my mother


The first fall, a parted mouth,
liver-stained liquid draining
from the corner
of a dead woman’s face.

The churning in the gut
at the proximity
to the hateful sphere.

The way the body echoes mine,
distorted in a house of mirrors,
and then, so smug,
so smug;
we are not yet free of our dancing burden.

Chorus of transcriptions.
Legacy of dandelions
and dendrites,
from each to the other
hormones call,
unlucky in their perseverance of flight.

You’re next, says the agitated crab,
hungry for pulmonary enzymes.
On the delicious lick
of the fingers
when the mitochondria
are distracted.

My hipbone is not so distinct
from the tilt of a chimpanzee
and my closest living relative
no longer shares my chromosomes.
Distinctly, Y’s everywhere are shrinking,
the genes jumping to other chains.

Is this what it means to evolve?
To become parenthesis in a limbo of spiraling heavens —
this new cosmology claims my teeth.


Look, we bear the same
scars.
It took 37 years
for the C-section
to fade back
to smooth flesh —
Could I stretch like you? Yellow
and without marks.


I won’t say your name
to a grave.


I drag small planets along
a curb lined with
shaking cats.


Orion blazes
into a belt of fire.


The chasm
into which
I have dropped
my breath


reverberates
with regret.


Take back the monitor
tick tocking into nothingness.



Come back, my hateful, ugly one.

Take into this night
my terrible cry.

Art Lives!

Two very amused tourists stood in front of the building next door to mine. They were capitivated by the tiny figurines capering on the first floor windowsill.

"Do you think we can take a picture?" they asked in that indeterminate Northern European-ish accent that sounds like a femme version of the chef from the muppets.

"Yeah," I said, "sure. But this is sort of an installation, it changes every day. So you should come back tomorrow and take another picture." I myself had been seduced by the little plastic dancers who skipped between the rusted bars -- Smurfs, plastic horses, soldiers, my little ponies -- in an ever changing circle of life.

I went by yesterday, and they had been replaced by someone a bit more disarming. I am not sure what this particular incarnation means. But I remember watching this show, and that it taught me a damn good lesson. He is a bad guy. There is some electricity. What do you think?

NYC Foto File: The Secret Life of Benches

Can you come up with a caption for these Central Park scenes, near the Strangers Gate?

OMG! TRANSIT STRIKE!

On the city info line the guy practically SCREAMS, "Due to ILLEGAL TRANSIT STRIKE!"

What to do? How is this day gonna unfold?

Oh The Places You'll Go: The World

Obviously I need to pay a visit to my friends in the PACIFIC! Australia and Japan -- I have no excuses! South America and fill in those African spaces in the middle...My fave trip remains Costa Rica! My favorite home feeling country -- Trinidad!



create your own visited countries map

Oh, The Places I've Been!

Here is a cool map of states I've been. Notice any patterns? Some are for friends, some are for writing, some are for family, some were lover vacations...back down memory lane...



create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.