liberdad

me:i am working on something very exciting

Ruck: ah...i can feel it!

me: Do you think as a writer, you can write about something completely foreign to you?

and it be good

Ruck: a question first...is anything, topic, experience, emotion foreign?

3:00 PM me: yes yes!

that's what i'm exploring!

if we try to write about these things

will we see more humanity?

3:01 PM Ruck: i think life is interconnected. our knowlege or experiences related to issues, emotions, etc. vary, but i dont think anything is foreign...

3:02 PM i think you should go for it. there are always gradations...explore those and the nuances.

3:03 PM me: yes yes I am I will

I hope I can do it justice

Ruck: you will.

Now I ask you readers... did I?

Tonight we stayed in,
laying in my basement apartment
the sound of the rain
mimicking the footsteps
just above us.
If we listen closely we can hear the wind whisper
sweet nothings into our window panes
the fog makes visibility difficult,
so tonight there is no need to close the curtains.
The light peaking from the bathroom
eclipses the darkness outdoors
just enough to keep the shadows of passersby
dancing across our skin
something about the mood
is warm.
ice chips melt in the salt settled along
my tongue from the heat in the room
the center of my chest shines
from the perspiration not quite intense enough
to form beads.
and just inches away from me
I can feel your thoughts
rising and falling with every breath you take.
when you exhale
i feel the air from your lips
dance across my eyelids
each time you speak,
your voice echoes, booms,
beats...
and a steady baseline
runs down my spine.
Something about the mood,
is warm
like the spot between
your chin and your neck
i kiss you softly there,
lips slightly parted,
moist-
warm.
i feel your fingertips
tapping at my thoughts,
understanding...
gripping them effortlessly
opening your mouth to tell me
you're thinking the same thing
feeding me the last bit of chill in the room
just before it melts
my hair intertwined in your french tips
and you taking the words out of my mouth
slowly,
the texture of your taste buds
grabs each moan, protest, hesitation
and swallows them
digesting any doubts.
I run my finger across your collar bone
admire the richness of your skin
marvel at the bareness of your chest.
as each wall comes down,
i begin to see you take shape
there is beauty in the lithe rotundness of your form
and nervous and excited energy
nibble where there is meat
biting just hard enough
for us to hear the steel
tapping against my teeth.
she speaks...
stand up, i want to see you.
her eyes look through me,
small hands
slide up my legs,
cup my bottom
and peel away the fabric separating us.
I can feel the heat from my pores
warm her palms
she hums across the small of my back
I am ready.
i return with curious hands,
sit her down for questioning...
gently part her point of prayer
and lay my cheek
just on the inside of her thigh
I stop
I want to remember this scent.
I suck my index finger
and slowly beckon her center
I whisper,
I want to make you come.
back arched,
protracted-
one hundred eighty degrees
perfection requires balance
and i find myself nestled equally
between multiple pairs...
Something about the mood,
is warm...

[to be continued]

keep or be kept.

It's crazy how someone can say something and it just sticks. It makes sense, it hits home, it's on point. And not in that general sense (which is always good) but that one line that just makes so many things crystal clear. So, on twitter, Chevy_Pender tweets the block quote below. I copy/paste it. It stays at the top of a word document for a long long time. For one, I can't create poetry on a computer, only edit. So my next pieces will be better now that I have some damn paper. But two, I knew what I wanted to say... the how was proving difficult. So I sort of let instinct have it's way. And this is how it went...

Hate in your heart is like self-imprisonment,

when you let it go, it lets you go...

Some days I wake up confined…
My feelings not my own,
My despair uncontrolled
And you in control of my slumber-
Taunting me.
And every thought in between
The dark colors and stings
Is what would it be like to be free?
Couldn’t fathom just being me
So I’m stuck waking up
Like huh? What the fuck?
When did this begin defining me?
despising me?
Speaking so sweetly-
But having no meaning
And I pause to ask myself-
Who’s really doing the keeping?
When you’re around I’m at my worst
Going to bed, never sleeping
Always crying, never weeping
End up starving from overeating.
Imprisoned by this body
Told when to eat, shit, and think and
I’m too strong to be incarcerated for being weak and
if I just close my eyes I could sleep and
If it’d let me go I could think and-
Not sure of where to place the blame
But my hate for you has driven me insane
When it was in walking distance all along
I could stroll and lose my mind cuz you wrong
If I’m strong enough to find it when you gone
Before you divide it,
Before love and hate collided
And I became my own warden
Too scared to think outside the box
I locked myself into you
Forgetting that Love. Is. Key.
It’s the only ingredient in freedom
And is a dish best served warm,
With sincerity…
Your grip once held tightly to me
It just took another look for me to see
If I opened my arms wide enough for you to fit between,
You’d slip right out of my hands...

and there ain't no holding on to
something you can't grasp...
and no need to question if you cant ask
strength is about how much you can carry
but resilience is about how much you can let go
get free from the get go
love. is. key.

4 play

I used to date a guy...

I only wish I could meet you tomorrow
so we could spend one more dream together...
When my sunshine's inside, put me under the weather
no Robitussin, just robes and tusslin,
tossin and turnin, missin and yearning
call me anything new under the sun...
I've already been done,
been one, it's been fun

...and this is how we'd flirt

Sowy

Ok I've been writing like a mad woman but I've been loving it... and as a writer I have the moments where what I write needs to be released right away- and then some moments where it just ain't ready. Then there's this issue of October. I'm tryin to feature at this spot and some shit I been writing, I don't want to hit anyone's ears until that night!!

Keeping the goodies from you is TORTURE. But I have promised sooo much and not delivered in over a week. I also have contracted Swine Flu in London so that may give you some indication of the hold up but shit... If I must be in bed- let it be with pen in hand.

xx

Single anyone?

Still no internet! But here is what I could quickly type/copy/paste. Hopefully tomorrow we can get to the meat of things! Love ya'll and thanks for your tremendous patience.

xoxo

I’m just about my only single friend left. It seems relationships are perpetually around me. Usually my energy would be completely negative right now but I’m so fuckin happy. Not that fake I’m happy, where you smile around your friends and cry yourself to sleep at night. Nope. This positive energy is genuine. It is born because I have finally accepted my being single. I have given my happiness priority over my pain. I have too much going on to think about being single. WOW. THAT is a first. The more I find myself drifting from concern over my relationship status, the more I drift from caring about the people who avoided a relationship. I have never had a committed, long-term relationship as an adult. Had a boyfriend when I was 16 who cheated on me the entire time. And one in college I used to make the guy I wanted to be with jealous. It was long distance. It was superficial. I wasn’t committed. And now, years later, I have found comfort in my virginity. I don’t know what it means to be with someone for a year, or to have sex with the same person consistently for more than 3 months at a time.

But what I do know, is that, I have monk like qualities when it comes to sex. My body can sustain itself for months at a time. I never need to FIND someone to have sex with. I can have sex with myself. I do so very freely, and am very open about that. If you’re with a woman who doesn’t have sex with herself, you’re not with a woman.

Beyond the sex, I’m unaffected by the infatuation that clouds judgment in new relationships. I know the butterflies well. I know the rerecording of voicemails to make sure you don’t sound too excited. I know the 200 hits to their facebook a day. The memorizing pictures. When everything they say is the most adorable and hilarious thing you’ve heard. When you drift off in thought about them. Try to remember every story. Try to informally record all mildly significant moments in your lives together. And I know how much of that fades three months later. And if somewhere between the fantasy you were able to capture the true essence of that person; measure their ability to make you smile, to cheer you up and on, and to generally be present in your life in mind and spirit- then, maybe you got something.

I have good practice with the reality. Not so much with the remainder. But I’m here. And single. And happy. Content that what I have to offer is more than a lot of men can recognize. Thankfully, I’ve been single long enough to know that I can wait a little longer, stay a little lonlier And further, relishing in the fact that I’m a relationship virgin. And we all know how much men love virgins ;)

pause.

I'm at an internet cafe cause I been unable to access internet all weekend. But, I don't break promises so FOUR pieces are coming for that ass... Monday evening! Food for thought until then:

I asked God to help me understand a boy,
instead he introduced me to a man.

on lies

it is said that a man's love is life and a woman's life is love. well i'd agree. nothing i love more than the feeling of being in love. and now, that i am truly single, and no longer in pursuit of the man i once loved, i find myself missing even the destructive moments. the tears, the arguments, the long emails- because they had been a part of me for so long. i miss the drama, i'm convinced it made my writing better, because there is beauty in pain. and now i feel cloud nine tickling my feet, things are so much clearer and the writing is not as raw. not necessarily a reality i want to change, but one i want to acknowledge.

so if a woman's life is love, then her life should include a love of manifestations of love, including sex. i believe women love sex more than men. we do not want it as much because you are usually not good at it. yes, even you... WE FAKED IT! women masturbate more then men, because you see, men tend to do it when they can't get any. We do it regardless. and she may say she doesn't, but she either does or wants to.

I think relationships end up so fucked because everybody's lying. if you are with a woman who climaxes everytime, she is lying. she wants your love. committment, attention, affection- and oral sex.... make her climax. that pumpin shit rarely gets her anywhere ('cept for a couple good days in 06) but if she came, she made it happen, not you. so before you pat yourself on the back, really think back to your experience and ask yourself, did i do all i could? anyless than your best, and you can guarantee she faked it. More than half of it is mental, I could do my taxes while you pumped till your appendix burst. but we won't tell you that- nope. we lyin to feed your ego cause you need to feel irreplacable to love. well my brother, my index finger alone has done more damage than you.

the next time i have sex it'll last for 2 days. and when you don't get it right the first time, i'll grab your hand and we'll do it again. we will watch jada, we will touch each other slowly and deeply. you will concentrate on stimulating all of my senses. and if we can't make love, we can make truth.

mmmm...

any way the wind blows...

did an exercise where I built a piece around the first line I came up with... helps ease a lot of writer's block for me because everyday I come up with many bits and pieces, but an entire work takes a few days. unless it just comes... that's amazing to watch and that could take a couple hours.

she's barely tall enough to meet your shoulders
it's how you know she has your back
and some how her small frame
manages to play home to a heart
bigger than your emotions can imagine
so you question her authenticity
she's only human though, so
instead of trying to determine your capacity
for all of her love
she keeps swaying the leaves
so you know the wind blows
not quite able to think critically
you criticize her efforts,
chastise her tropical storm for being too much
while she huffs and she puffs
till she turns herself blue
tryna prove to you
some shit you don't have the ability to understand.
convinced that you just needed to see
it's tremendous size and capability
and miraculously you'd agree
she was what you needed all along
and the powerful gusts of wind
born of her deep breathing
hit you with force you never seen
she was a category three
and you kept looking back
so she kept building speed
fearful of actually getting the love you need
you took refuge under
a dilapidated covering
one that had been hovering around your weakness
because it looked familiar
and now the both of you are exposed
and even with two hearts and two souls
you couldn't understand her role
because you don't know love enough
you prefer to keep things rough
so you remain untouched
push her hundreds of miles away, develop mistrust,
and when shes blown to bust,
- all is quiet on your front
no one has your back,
and you realize she was always what you wanted.
by then it'll be too late,
the damage too great
her heart and lungs have forgotten what love was, what was such,
an exhausting experience
and now you're addicted
no longer conflicted
because instead of trusting the leaves
you had to leave to see
that somehow many fish
could still make an empty sea
and
every time you hear the rattling of leaves
you think that maybe she
is back to prove her love
and it will be many hurricane seasons before you realize...
it's your turn to blow.

inspiration.

the title of the blog is inspired by lauryn hill's "conform to love." it's a song about doing more than loving, about being love. so much of my writing is inspired by her honesty. her insanity. her talent. and her freedom. i love righteousbabygirls.blogspot.com dearly. it is and will always be a part of my writing experience and comedic talents, but i wanted to create a space defined by freedom. my words- poems, essays, prose that you've heard or haven't. I'll dig in the crates for classics ya'll wanted copies of that never got to you. All I ask in return is that you share your thoughts and feelings about the work!

Everyday people approach me about how that piece i did at ____(insert dc locale here)___ meant so much, influenced their decisions, reflected feelings they couldn't verbalize... and i always wish i could've heard it there in that moment. i also ask that if you reprint/copy/repost you give credit to the author and this blog. and most importantly! communicate with me, ask me questions, make requests! some of my best work was commissioned.

random but being on twitter has broken down so many walls that i had no part in putting up. many created from fear or misconception. like lauryn says everybody is going through the same shit. i only believe in 2 emotions, love and fear... i hope ya'll choose love and join me on my mission to write a piece for the next 30 days. trying to push myself further than i ever have. the parable of the talents and recent events have ordained it. no room for fear in freedom!

xx

-JB

enjoy!

tragedy or triumph?

something about michael jackson's death reminds me of the election of barack obama. both monumental moments in recent history. and in both instances i saw humanity. people across the world seemed to fall silent because no words quite expressed the sheer reverance that overwhelmed us. but in great tragedy, as in great triumph, we find ourselves re-evaluating our personal relationships and performing a sort of emotional inventory- asking whether or not we loved enough, gave enough, tried enough. and quiet as it is kept, tragedy and triumph affect us so deeply because we often realize that after performing that inventory, some shit is missing.

we regret that we didn't study harder, work longer, or dedicate ourselves more- because we really could have been more like barack. we regret that we don't tell our loved ones we love them enough because of the sudden and untimely passing of many of our heroes. but if after a few days, after the dust has settled, we go back to the same way we were before, what have we learned? what has changed?

advising people to tell loved ones they loved them is admirable, but if everyday, you go through life knowingly treating someone with disrespect, hurting them, and lying to them, then what do your words mean? i keep finding people who harbor anger, get upset, at how people treat them or what people have done to them without ever pausing for a second to think that what they put into the universe they get out of the universe. and how many people must fail you before you do that inventory check and realize it is you who is failing.

we admire mike we admire barack, we are invigorated by the possibilities after seeing just how unbelievable the universe can be. but if after the memorial goes off, or after the election takes place you haven't forced yourself beyond your comforts, then why even exaggerate your lament at all. it's easy to tell someone you love you love them. try apologizing to someone you know you hurt, forgiving someone you know hurt you, thinking of ways to live your life that reflect the goodness of michael's spirit. defending causes that will change the way evil operates. embrace change. that may be the one drake lyric i have to respectfully disagree with. niggas always wanna remain the same... but if you the same muthafucka you been the past five, ten, fifteen years no wonder you find yourself constantly questioning the people around you.

people who influence the world are never static characters... everyday they grow and change and learn. what true love is, is loving someone through the difference. so as we all remember the dynamism that was embodied by michael, i hope we don't forget the dynamism within ourselves. and for once, be so moved by tragedy or triumph that we actually have the courage to change something about ourselves. and then, maybe later, something about the world.

capiche.

one of my latest and most favorite pieces. sometimes you write shit and you make yourself pause cause penning it was an out of body experience. well that's what happened here. hard to look at yourself so openly and honestly. hope you enjoy.

He doesn't understand.

He's a smart man, but-
he doesn't understand

doesn't understand, can't comprehend

Why I want him to be my man.

How do I convince him that he can?

That he's capable, more than able-

to satisfy what I desire.

He's a man with vision

but can't see the scars across my chest,

where a rapist grabbed my breasts

where I let men rest

who could care less
 about. me.

he's a brilliant man, but he can't understand

how ignoring my calls

makes me feel small

like less than,

not equal to,

not me and you-

he's a diligent man,

but he never researched me

never looked me up beyond the maybelline

I may be lean, but my heart. is. heavy.

I am the definition of forgotten

he remembers my bed, remembers my head

but it slips his mind to see if I'm okay

He doesn't see how taking me out once a week

makes me feel disposable

late nights he recycles me

uses me over and over to reach his peak

and gets so high

he can't see the mountain on his shoulders breaking me

his friends know everything about him
--but they don't know me

which leads me to believe

that he doesn't think I am about him.

around him can't surround him.

with anything. but. my. body.

and he's an intelligent man

but he can't read my biography

he doesn't know I have a history

of dealing with men who only appreciate me

after. 3 am.

I have a father and I am ashamed

to tell him that his daughter

has let a man depress her- 
neglect her- 
forget. her.

not remember to respect her.

i am just a useful tool.

a screwdriver.

your screw drives her-- to make better mistakes.

He's a smart man

but he refuses to see

how his behavior reflects SHE--
his daughter,

the girl who calls him father.

he's a wise man

but too shallow to see

how deep his behavior reaches.

one day a man will leave her beaten. cheated.

treated like meat and-

he'll disconnect the pieces

of our broken hearts

he won't see it. won't see him.

himself in the selfish bastard

who broke his baby's heart.

you know where it ends,

but I know where it starts

my dad broke my heart years before it beat

and her dad would break mine before she'd ever speak.

and she's a smart girl but,

when it comes to he- she doesn't think

doesn't weep, doesn't see...
how she repeats

like a scratched cd
before giving up and skipping to the next song...
And how many tracks will I leave behind
Before someone worthy finds me
And stops. Pressing. Play.
Ejects the mistakes my father made
Fasts forward to what will be his daughter’s pain
If only those visits to the gym
Made you strong enough to eradicate
The behaviors that made you this way.
And after all this time I don’t see results,
Don’t have a membership,
I just remember shit
Like the many times and the many things
You put before getting to know me
Not the bottom half,
But the whole me,
How Everclear reality is now,
It still stings going down
And it’s a hard pill to swallow,
But I’m a tough act to follow
And I almost dare you to find
A woman whose heart is as big as mine
Who is as willing to take the time
To deal with your emotional unavailability
You think I want to be before anything
I just don’t want to be after everything
Why can’t we just be... together
My mama used to say
If you’re too ashamed to introduce him to me
He’s not fit to be a part of your life
And I wish she wasn’t right
But when she asks about you, I lie,
I try, to deny that just like her I lie
Night after night in denial
Telling myself in time
Daddy will come home
And just like me
She wonders why
Every man in her life seems to be a failure,
To fail her,
To nail her to a cross roads
Somewhere in between love and giving up
Between giving her all and not giving a fuck
And I’m my father’s daughter
So if there is one thing I can understand,
I can understand, I do comprehend
That if he can’t hear me scream,
Then maybe it’s time to whisper
To ordain that the pain that encompasses me
Will miss her
My daughter
Who WILL have a loving father whose past won’t come back to haunt her
Who WILL be nothing like her mother,
Who WILL be far stronger
I won’t worry about her...
She will be ok.......
I know cause my mother ordained the same.

an ode to the district.

i've lived in DC for over 4 years now and if there is one thing i can say about this place, it is that for it to be so small, it is packed with some of the most beautiful history i have ever studied. i hope that my dc natives and transplants alike can appreciate this work and i hope it is an appropriate expression of the power that lies within these 8 wards. In honor of Emancipation Day I presented this to community partners at OneDC.

The only thing constant in the world,
Is change.
That’s why today I take life as it comes.

In the District of competition,
Where there isn’t always clear vision,
We rely on superstition
To explain the broken reflection of ourselves
Confused because our worlds don’t mirror
The presidential picture
And if you happen to be the Natasha
Whose last name ain’t Obama
You may begin to wonder if you’re in the frame at all
Constantly left to fend(ty) for herself
This poor little DC girl
Has had to forward her mail every year of her life
May your mayor make her a priority
Realize she’s the majority,
Skip the presidential tea parties,
To save the girl stuck in a rut between Good hope, and Kings dreams.
Writing letters from a Birmingham jail, in her cell on Alabama avenue.
If only he could see what D sees,
That behind Florida’s palm trees,
Beside the capitol lettering,
There are lower cases of affordable housing
Where we forgot that we,
Were supposed to be,
Lifting up our hearts.
If we could see what D sees,
Fight against the patriarchy,
Count the number of students at Gonzaga high
With sursum corda residency.
Watch the faces on the 90 change 180 degrees
Cause those on the S2 said FU,
The Hill’s in Southeast
And I signed my lease
And the landlord said it wouldn’t be that bad
Cause all the culture that it used to have
Fits nice and compact
Into Sundays farmer’s market.
Where Monday’s beggar plays jazz.
If only we could see what D sees….
That you street, ben’s chili and the naacp
Used to belong to her
But the pronoun has attached itself to someone else
And now there’s a bistro where she used to shoot free throws
A café where she danced ballet
And that low class liquor store is no more
It’s a wine bar now.
And now we have two memorials along the corridor
Both reminders of a civil war
That left black faces to be remembered
So long as we don’t forget,
our number of completion is eight
and the freed slaves who paved way,
are rolling in their graves today
cause the noise created by the freeway and suitland parkway
keeps them up at night
listening to others make plans to decimate
the community they purposely neglected in the first place
But if only they could see what D sees
That she is capable of creating wizardry
She is the same D, that allowed Nannie Helen B
Suburban Gardens, and H.D.
To coexist peacefully
The same D that gave Amtrak Ivy city
And though she don’t get much in return…
she returns some of the greatest black leaders of our time.
The history that D has seen,
Will always triumph over the misery
That attacks her self esteem.
It is freedom that wipes her clean.
The only thing, constant in our world is change.
And the only way to understand our future
Is to recognize our past
If we could see what D sees,
We’d hold on dearly to our city.
In the name of Anna J. Cooper
And William Birney,
I pray that one day we can all see,
What D sees.

on michael...

It is now I see and feel that calling once again,
to be a part of music that will not just connect,
but make all feel one- one in joy, one in pain, one in love.
one in service and in consciousness. ---Michael Joseph Jackson

it is usually said that it's better late than never, but if ever there was a time to disprove everything we think we know... this is it. truthfully I woulda preferred to never have had to write this, late or otherwise. but alas we are here. took a while because i put myself in exile for 20 days and 20 nights and because for a woman who has never stopped talking- i had nothing appropriate enough to say.

in a conversation with mr. crawford last night, he said, 'hate is the new love.' a phrase i been using but never really heard it explained quite the way he did. he said, in the days of Michael, Whitney, etc... it was always about love. I need love. I want love. I will always love you. they were driven by it. and now, music, musicians are fueled by hate. You can hate me now. To all the hataz. I do it for the hataz. we are defined by how many people hate us, rather than by how many loved us. so that is why i build my itunes backwards.

5 days ago though, we loved like we did in the 80s. three generations remembered the time when we first met- LOVE. my six year old niece asked about smooth criminal- my favorite MJ video. we remembered my brother's MJ dancing party service-- they did a routine at my sister's sweet 16 and everyone else's parties, talent shows, etc. My father said he couldn't sleep after finding out. And me? In the middle of the dance floor at cafe iguanas... i took his advice. laid my 9-5 on the shelf... and LIVED. thought it started raining, but it was just my tears.

6/30/09 via righteousbabygirls.blogspot.com (my home blog)

inches.

at night i watch you sleep
and to my surprise, when you open your eyes,
i still don't break my stare.
i'm here, you're there, and the years between us
are now just inches of heavy breathing
i listen to you speaking
each breath has me remembering
in our pasts i saw a future and
i adore you so confidently
i often struggle with what to do between
respirations.
you are my reparation
everything i get back from years of degradation
unappreciation, misappropriation of love.
now I am free.
to gaze at the man God made me for
the one God saved me for
i keep imagining
a different way to tell you i love you
but none of the words ever seem to be enough...
the I can't describe who I was when we met
and who i'll be when we separate long enough to go on to our next lives.
the you doesn't begin to reflect the many faces i've grown accustomed to
despite all the things we've been through,
the one i remember best is your smile.
and love...
love will never be enough cause it'll always be between us
and i won't separate our destiny
your strides are so big because you walked across galaxies to get to me
you fill my cup- you're only bringing out the best in me
and when i stretch across jupiter to hold your hand
i'm only showing my flexibility
my ability
to deal with irregularity
knowing if i were situated similarly
you'd be right there with me
illuminating my celestial body
hop scotching across coma berenices
-you carry my burdens and place them among the stars
my constellation prize
you reward me for just being here
i was Ayyub in my past life
and light years later
i finally understand
that despite my beginning
i shall enjoy my end
and appreciate the faith you restored it with
at night you watch me sleep...
and to my surprise when I open my eyes
you still don't break your stare...
you're there, i'm here
and the light years between us
are now just inches.of.heavy.breathing

word play

I don't have a way with words
but if I could have my way with words,
I'd make sure that you and I are never in between Q and T
always connected to you and me
forever on opposite ends of unity
so we can bring together what seems to be
the most opposite of similarities
when two eyes see you and I they look quizzically
it took the third eye in you to see, the individual in me
the you and I in revolutionary,
the you in us
the you and me in what they presume to be...
run of the mill, when we’re one in a mill
... the you, me, and us in my muse
the you in Euterpe, the I in Calliope
no you no me in tragedy…
takes two eyes from two minds to inspire
another shade of Blue,
another word for you,
another place for me
another stage for us
and I don’t have a way with words
but if I could have my way with words…
I’d make forever modify your happiness,
Restructure your sentence
So you don’t serve life
In this homophobic, germaphobic, lovaphobic cell,
And strike every passive voice that emits
From the fruit of your lips
Cause Miss, the English language, would be remiss
Without you….
Without 21, there can be no 22,
And an alphabet from A to T
Don’t make no damn sense to me….
And I don’t have a way with words
But if I could have my way with words
I’d use them as a sword to protect your smile,
Cause I see me in it…
I’d sow into our music,
Cause I see us in it…
I’d puff an L, to change the world, word?
Cause I see must in it
I’d get drowsy imagining the possibility in why…
Takes a third eye to see two G’s
Which is why there’s only one in judgment
And I don’t have a way with words,
But if I had my way with words I’d tell you…
Between you and I… no evol,
I love you…
Love.
No drums. No dreds. No incense.
No nappy ass beard. No talking like I’m weird.
This comes from my innocence…
Addressed to your inner sense
Wish this had a transcript
Cause I don’t have a way with words
But if I could have my way with words
I’d just say…
"Sista, you’ve been on- my- mind
Sista we’re two of a kind
So sister, I’m keeping my eyes on you...."

the miseducation part 1

Lauryn Hill is gifted. To put it simply, she may be one of the most brilliant writers and musicians of our time. The only thing inhibiting her success in the mainstream is her change from the commercial Lauryn we all know and love to the "psycho babble" Lauryn we feared and misunderstood... but little did you all know, my girl was always ahead of her time, you just weren't paying attention... "And even after all my logic and my theory, I ADD a muthafucker so you ignorant niggas hear me." That being said, Lauryn and I have always been kindred spirits. Poet to poet, brown skin to brown skin, love of the classics (Carter G. Woodson), and... our absence from school the day LOVE was taught.

I hate writing poems about love... well the ones about heartbreak and being in love and all that ..stuff. However, some stuff just needs to be said ya know? I remember a few years ago, I wrote a poem that went "Black Love is Black wealth and damnit... I'm rich bitch!!!" Well today, I can declare I am not only broke.. but in debt. The poem went on to discuss the beautiful examples of love I had seen on TV or read about in books. No mention of my parents or my sister or my cousin... nothing. I don't have many examples to go by. And even if I did... eating a bunch of brownies and cakes doesn't make a great baker. The bottom line is I don't understand love and to be perfectly honest... I never have.

My first love was Tupac Shakur. Eight years old I was listening to his music religiously and memorizing the lyrics, wearing his shirts, dubbing tapes aaaah, the good old days. My elementary and middle school friends should remember MsShakur4life... the coolest screen name ever! Haha. Some should remember a rainy September 13th, candles and a Ouija board. Torn between life and death, I remember my parents being concerned about what they deemed my obsession but shit... it was love. Love. My first love. There wasn't a man on this earth that could say I loved him before I loved Pac.

That was until Keenan. I was in love with a celebrity for so long loving a person I could touch was unreal. I still didn't understand love so I didn't have any demands of it. I just needed to be touched. I don't even mean in the sexual sense... In the sense that, if I could touch him, it meant he was real... it meant the love was real. He was my BOYFRIEND. I enjoyed just saying the word. He thought I was smart and pretty. I was amazed... but I didn't know shit about love. I knew that Keenan loved... a lot. A lot of women. He apologized. Over and over again. But it wasn't until I was 2,000 miles away and received news of twins (that weren't mine) I finally understood what love wasn't. Still meant I didn't understand what it was either.

Love is enduring. I started to love whoever. I threw the word around like a football and there are boyfriends in between Pac and Keenan and him that thought I loved them. But I was playing the game. What's the harm in telling a guy you love them cause you like them?? Well... it's a lie for starters :)

But then there was Him. God. I love him like I love oxygen. And in my love of him... I began to love ANOTHER. But loving someone doesn't make them love you. I found that in loving him I learned a lot about loving myself. You know when you love someone so much you get frustrated because you can't even fix your lips to express it? Or when their actions hurt you so much you are literally sick to your stomach? Somedays I can't breath at the thought of life without them... Love is kind yes but it can hurt like a bitch sometimes too. I love this man so much I refuse to call him my "other half" because, if I have learned anything about love it's that you can't count on someone to make up your half. I love him so much I worked damn hard to make myself whole so the both of us as wholes can compliment each other. I love him so much I smile if I think he's happy. The crazy thing about love is that it can take you to the top... and to the bottom.

So here I am in love... but in debt. and tears. I have been taking some remedial courses on it and I figured that I better stick to loving the Big Him... cause he has all the answers I need. And I keep tryna figure out shit but it ain't meant for me to know. I still love him... the human him, and he hurts me and it hurts me BUT... I pray for strength and healing. strength and healing. strength and healing. *Shaking my head* Love... and strength and healing.

So if you are sitting here and actually read through all of this and find that you have somehow been Miseducated.... take time to go back to school. If you love somebody (specially the fellas) act like it... tell her... show her. She is dying to hear it. But be honest about your feelings cause if you keep waiting until things are just right... you'll miss out on a happiness you've never imagined.


**Striving for perfect attendance**
JPB

"Let me tell you somethin... This here.. right now.. at this very moment... is all that matters to me. I love you. And that's urgent like a motherfucker."

4/6/07

Death is never about dying

I got serenity tattooed on my wrist, so I could remember peace in my darkest hour. When it throbs I know it's a reminder of peace in life. Reminds me to calm myself. A mark of the flesh as a reminder to thrive in the spirit. My flesh doesn't mean much to me. I can tell in the way I treat it... but my spirit! Aaaah. God breathes life into my spirit and I cannot mistreat that. No matter how hard I try. But my flesh must die for me to live in the spirit. And you see... you who are my enemy are actually my savior.

They tell you to love your enemy but I am in love with my enemy. He hates me. He hates the way I love, the way I think, the way I act. In his eyes I'm only flesh but see, when I look at him... I see his spirit. I'm sorry for well, the days I thought in terms of flesh. But for the days I thought in the spirit.... well those were the best days of my life. I imagined a day that he would love my spirit but in a year and a half that day has yet to come. It is so easy to get caught up in the flesh. In all that is around you. We forget our partners in spirit who didn't lust after our flesh. The ones who knew our middle names (or lack there of :)) or who loved our mothers for making us. Who were proud of us. Who were happy to see us. Who were honest with us.

I always loved your spirit. Whether you'll believe it or not... cold rain has a way of telling the flesh a lot about the spririt.

But you know, God has been moving in me in miraculous ways. He told me my flesh would have to die in order for spirit to live. I had to release the pain in my flesh for the freedom of my spririt. All this time I kept wondering why I loved you. It was because you you were my enemy. You would betray me. I needed you to. You see you don't know how to lov anyone living. I have to die for you to ever love to me. You wanted to love me so badly you hated me to death. You could kill my flesh but you could never take my spirit's will to live.

Romans 8:13 says "Through the spirit, heal your flesh, you will live, prosper. The words I speak are spirit." I can kill my flesh with the word. In this case you words were, "so, bye." Wrenched with indifference. I felt meaningless but I started to understand that this had to happen. I had to be betrayed, had to be dismissed so I could live.

As I sat in the cold rain dying I finally understood the purpose. When I approached God with an open heart... once I satisfied his love he didn't deny me. I prayed for everthing I experienced. I prayed to be killed.

I prayed to die. I prayed for this because I prayed for my spirit. I prayed for you to kill me without taking my will to live. You can't have that.

I think back to my freshman year of highschool when my mother kept saying how much she wanted a doctor in the family. So as I sat in all of my math and science courses writing compositions, and then told people I would become a plastic surgeon.. I gave up. My mother or anyone else could not make me into a person I wasn't. I was apologetic, I meant well when I lied about my interest in medicine. But i was not that person. And when I think about you... I love you because you are me. There are a world of people asking you to be someone you are not. You may have the ability to be... but you are not.

I wanted you to be a man you couldn't be. One my flesh wanted so badly it ignored what my spirit made clear. No one has ever required anything else of you. The success of your flesh meant you could ignore everything else around you because your success in flesh was enough. You don't have to call, we'll call you... you don't have to care, we'll care for you... you don't have to work, we'll work for you... you don't have to love, we'll love you...

Damn I loved you spirit so much I wanted you to be a doctor when you couldn't be. You didn't know how. So you did what you knew how to do. Love the flesh. Now that you have killed me, my flesh is dead. All that's left is my spirit and you don't know how to love that. So when you hit me with the "bye" I finally understood. Bye is forever. Say goodbye to my flesh... I am dead to you.

R.I.P. Jordyne Persephone B.

In Search of my Mother's Garden

I shared an excerpt from Alice Walker's "In Search of my Mother's Garden" with my students last week.

I read this to my tenth graders and we discussed the extended metaphor in the prose and what the "garden" represented. Walker's mother had the ability to take rocky soil and turn it into a beautiful garden because she possessed the "...muzzled and often mutilated, but vibrant, creative spirit the black woman has inherited." I posed the question to my students, "what is your mother's garden?" And anyone who knows me knows any writing of mine is inept without input from the illustrious L. Boogie who once stated, "I'm like the mad scientist who does the experiment on themselves." So of course I performed the experiment on myself and here is how it went....

At twenty, I have graduated from college, been accepted to law school and work full time as a high school English teacher. Every time I attempt to pat myself on the back, I remember that at this age my mother was new to the United States, newly married, expecting her first child and working while learning English at night.

Her name is signed to my story.

It wasn't until this past year that I began to seek my mother's garden. Years of adolescent angst barred me from doing so before; I was too busy resenting her. My mother, like a lot of Haitian women, is a pressure cooker. Much like that pot of rice she cooks every evening for dinner, my mother pressures her children to do more at all times. If I was graduating at 19, she wanted to know if there was a way I could do it at 18. For a young and developing woman, that pressure translated into inadequacy. Nothing I did was good enough.

As I look back on it, through teary eyes I understand her desire to see me succeed beyond even my wildest imagination. If she had the same opportunities I had... there is no telling the things she would have done. I wish I could have understood the spirit I had inherited back then. I wish I could have understood how monumental every ride I took on the Blue or Orange line was. I wish I would have said a prayer every time I walked through the front gates with the same consciousness I dodged that seal with. My journey from work, or Pentagon City, or my internship on the Hill went by quickly and quietly. I didn't see my mother sitting next to me 30 years before on her way to the same Georgetown neighborhood. I didn't see my mother sitting next to me in Dr. Mitchell's classroom. As I discussed literature as an English major... my mother learned the English language.

I wish I would have seen my mother's signature at the foot of my twin size dorm room bed before I invited an outsider to shatter my confidence. I wish as I recited my poetry in front of endless open mics I would have seen my mother's signature at the conclusion of every last line.

Every evening upon her return from a 10 hour work day, after a five star dinner has been cooked, she folds the newspaper to a quarter of its size... On it you'll see the day's crossword puzzle. It seems in a matter of minutes she has completed every small square on the recycled paper. 5A or 7D kneels before her like it seems everyone should. If during the day she is conquered by fatigue, frustration, or sheer brokenness.... during the evening she manages to conquer every thing else from puzzles to bills to dinner to... life. Thirty years ago, she couldn't define any of the words on the sheet and now, she could write the clues herself.

I found beauty in her accomplishment. I tried to emulate it. I was an English major after all and extremely well read. And.. English was my first language. As I sat on a Saturday afternoon I tried for hours to accomplish what my mother accomplished on a daily basis. I failed. Failed miserably. When my mother saw my attempt... 6 answers filled out of the near 200 she giggled quietly. Under her breath was a certain wisdom I had yet to acquire. She knew like I know now, that I had to find my own garden.

My story is her story. Every poem, composition, paper, and essay I write bears her name. My mother's garden, her crossword puzzle, her ability to turn rocky soil into a beautiful garden, speaks to the muzzled, often mutilated yet vibrant creative spirit I have inherited. I hope when I walk into my first class at the Law Center I will recall my mother's first steps... into this country, into a classroom, into her job. I'm sure at my age in this time she would have aced the LSAT. But her signature was signed to my application, not her own. She was too busy being a mother to me....

In search of my mother's garden... I found my own.

Hold your hand much bigger,
never wanted mine to grow
so I could always fit perfect
inside your palms just so....

Thank you Mama. I finally understand...


5/13/07