New end of old times.

I haven't written very much in the past few months or so, I'll admit, nothing worth posting at least. I used to believe if I penned something every day I'd come away with a handful of end-products...fat lot that did, but what I learned was to adjust my own expectations. Not necessarily attaching less to myself, but redefining them as goals and turning my focus more on the free-write rather than "omg what have I produced lately". I suspect I'll be happier this year--with my own work if not what I do with it--more open, more exploratory, and (hopefully) far more consistent.

So I guess I'm not done yet...go.

when you go through 103 pages and end up satisfied with one paragraph.

Her name is not Julie.

Which in most cases is no great crime; names like Elizabeth, Raelynne, or Marlene are just as acceptable and effeminate without being Julie and no one bats an eye about it. Still, there’s a mesmeric quality about Julie, light and sing-songing, pretty…and the polar opposite to something like Corynne, especially when spelled incorrectly. The latter is earthy, muddy even, and well-rooted—or seemed so—does not readily draw attention but thrives when—most often by accident—it is bestowed. Medium in both hue and height, and well-shaped despite being unwilling to recognize those more aesthetically pleasing features that others like to point out, Corynne does not think of itself as belonging to a black woman, and this is a shared mindset between the two of them.

potluck can-can

Land of the—free at last

Lost home of the braves

                Roam no buffalo over shallow plains graves

I too?

More buzz than song—hum wild

And fresh off banana boat styles

Mangled star bannered on raised fist

Blazed on the back of afro picks

Manmade enclave for the guinea-mick

Oh beautiful.

And skies spacious overcast

Bootstrap foundation, built to last

Who says past?

Share croppers

Fence hoppers

Choo-choo chinaman

And the rainbow parade, down

                —Pride

(Or prejudice) A violet hour

Words like:

We

Are

Social

Power

mother

You are bombed brick immoveable

Full of whetstone promise

Having none of it

Strong, sturdy, stable

Pillar called truth, true enabler

Poised out of habit.

Mud hut cubed, packed pound

For pound against high water, hurricane,

(And the occasional hyena)

Knows no—all—strain, but three sisters

                And a glass ceiling,

How you stood between the world and I.

Born for bearing and daughter follows, but

You are bombed brick immoveable

                —Etched  wall standing

And I am only sand.

choke

Anxiety is—Tequila in the hall

Unsharpened axe grinding

                (teeth too)

Just after three am in the middle

Of Cleveland, Detroit if you’re lucky.

A present from the throat,

Stick-shift down to the stomach

—Crowbar in hand where

Green is the event horizon.

mistake on the lake

You’re a tower of indifference.

Muck foundation, made to stand on

 blue-collar hymns

Steel in the eye, voice, and toe.

We’re in the Land; Indian country,

No-man’s dog pound and long-cooled seats.

Collinwood mafia, Glenville beats.

Where you from?

O-H

Eastside suburbs, Erie coast,

The “Comeback City” (metro misfire)

Rust Belt baby,

 Cuyahoga pyre.

You’re one blue drop in a swing sea of red,

Two-one-six town, two-step after Broadway

                And fine of heart for patronage.

Poised on urban Renaissance.

Where you from?

                I-O

Rock on rock city, rock on.

tableau

Mix and match mud woman

                God-given brow

Hill high cheekbones

And mild-mountain nose

 Sloped bird-wide

(African pride)

Over sucker-fish lips

Fine land lineless face

Brown eyes looked black

Swoop almond, cornered up

They called them chink-chak

Topped off under matching naps