Slam Town, words, Vanilla Soul

A Few Good Men

This is one for the men who do the work and keep on moving including the guys that joined me for that life journey work we did at “The Wall” [...]
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Mater-Lineage

I performed this work for the Center for Spiritual Living and then for The Conversation and several folks requested a copy so here we go. Here is a 21st Century [...]
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Parrot: For Diane, Cooper and Alex

Parrot My friend Diane practices yoga three mornings each week. Her yoga teacher brings her beloved bird, Cooper to those sessions and Cooper loves Diane. The bird often flies out [...]
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A Few Good Men

May 25, 2013 in Brothers, Good Men, Men, Uncategorized

This is one for the men who do the work and keep on moving including the guys that joined me for that life journey work we did at “The Wall” recently…

A Few Good Men

I am looking
for a
few good men
though not necessarily
the ones with
crease and side arm.

I am looking for men
who take becoming
like medals to be earned
who fail in exact
proportion
to learning
who are not afraid
of facial condensation
because a
river runs
through them.

I am looking for men
who choose to love
above
“learn to kill”;
who stay with
a woman
before their heart
can get there
who hunt…
I am looking for men
who hunt
who track themselves
in the cold deep
snow
who see the precious
footprints
of their past
sorrow selves
and have the courage
to find the lost
boy

and lead
him
back.

I am looking for men
of balance
who figure out
their worst and best
equations,
the summary, the equal
that equals
themselves.
I am looking for men
who make warrior
journey travel women
proud
who tilt the
world on its axis
twice daily
who never give up
on their brothers
who return for their daughters
a hundred fairy tale years later.

I am looking for men
who hold themselves
up
hold each other
who are not afraid
to suspend
other men
half way between
earth
and sky
and say,
“Stay there
as long as
you need.
I got you.”
I am looking for men
who do that.

I am looking for good men
because good men
rekindle their goodness
even when their fathers
did not
good men
good men
just keep going
keep pushing past
snow banks
and mud shoals
and log jams
and track
their precious them
down.

I am looking for men
like that,
and the men
who are listening
are like that
are like this
are never lost forever
are
not
lost
boys
they are the men who find them,
who find the boys,
good men
find their boys
finally
and love their daughters
and return to
the scene of the time.

I am looking for men
who tilt the axis.
I am looking for men
like that
like good
like men
more than few,
a
few
good
men.

Mater-Lineage

May 12, 2013 in Center for Spiritual Living Tacoma, Matriarchal Lineage, Mother's Day, Motherhood, The Conversation

I performed this work for the Center for Spiritual Living and then for The Conversation and several folks requested a copy so here we go. Here is a 21st Century freedom liberation look at motherhood.

Thank you to all of the women that have made us possible and hope probable..

Mater-Lineage

 

Let us speak of the women

of the later 20th century sun

with the 21st still rising.

 

Let us think of how

different your era

has begun.

 

Let us not compare you

to a summer’s day,

for you weathered new

changing seasons

in the tumult of

unequal pay

shifting reasons to

stay or live alone,

children living in this

home that you

were finding

even as you sought

you settled

your wild heart

in the outposts

of the three story walk ups

castles, yurts and shelters.

 

Let us speak openly

Of the daring

lesbian mothers

who read their share of

Adrienne Rich

and coupled in constant danger,

could sew a button

in the late hours

after the couscous was

done

and the roasted chicken

was secure.

Let us think of

what it takes

to earn four bags of

groceries

at the grocery store.

 

Let us not underplay

the distance between

white feminists

and black women freedom fighters

between stay at home

warriors

and weary upclimbing

professionals.

 

Let us call a summit

and be assured that

you all deserve a

place on this

mountain

that no man should

hear what you negotiate

and know

that you will come

down united

in a way that should

make us tremble

and leave us proud

of the first position

 you will take

in leading this way

forward.

 

Let us not underestimate

how bondage takes

different forms

how a burqa

and a bikini thong

can equally confine

and let us as men

not arbitrate

your motherhood.

You are the unparalleled

artisans and architects

of tender villages,

tenant steering committees,

Colored Women’s Associations,

radical book clubs,

Mah Jong kitchen clatches,

tortilla making parties

and macrobiotic cooking

classes.

 

Let us assume that wherever

women gather

mother’s renew and reinvent

themselves in ways

that meet

these times

and no man among us

needs to weigh in

on that

moment

for sometimes evolution

is a solo sport

and women are figuring

it out

as they raise us

and teach us how

to bake the chicken

with the proper aromatics

or steam the rice

with a single packet

of Sazon Goya.

Let us believe that vegetables

can be revived

with sesame oil

and garam masala

and a dash of lemon pepper.

 

Let us remember that it

is an honor to sit

next to you

that you are beautiful

in circular ways, hard

to fathom,

that you are unfathomable

that we your children

expect you to break

new ground,

and you do, and you have

and you will

that your will is much

stronger than

your won’t

that nothing about

motherhood stays

the same

as much as we convince

ourselves you are unchanging—

you are changing

you are loving us

and raising us in

ways that suit

the times

that perhaps for the

first time

Trayvon Martin

was mourned

by thousands of white

women who joined

their black sisters

that this is

a sea change

on the sea shore

next to a universe

that

demands more of

all of us

and all of you

are leading all of

us

into another world

one child

at a time.

 

Let us speak of the

women

of the later 20th century sun

with the 21st, still rising.

 

the best possible hopes possible….

Parrot: For Diane, Cooper and Alex

May 6, 2013 in Animals, Consciousness, Mindfulness, Parrot, Pets

Parrot

My friend Diane practices yoga three mornings each week. Her yoga teacher brings her beloved bird, Cooper to those sessions and Cooper loves Diane. The bird often flies out of the cage and lands on Diane’s knee or hip or shoulder just as she is executing a difficult pose like Wild Thing, Bridge, Eagle, etc and while Diane loves her friend, she doesn’t want to hurt the poor thing. So Cooper teaches Diane supreme mindfulnes and puts his little body on the line each and every time.

Years ago I wrote a poem about the consciousness of animals based on the life and last moments of Alex who offered a heartfelt message of love to his owner Irene, just before he passed. I am offering it again, in honor of Cooper and all of the creatures who are more conscious and aware than we give them credit. Feel free to “parrot” the poem and pass it on.

Parrot

 You be good. I love you.

 Last words—

 from a parrot.

 Alex did not want a cracker.

He did

 

Want corn,

want nut

wanna go shoulder

wanna go gym;

 

or when you asked him

the same damned question

over and over again

he’d glace wistfully at

his cage and say:

 

Wanna go back.

 Something I have parroted

in my mind

when I’m listening

at the same insufferable

staff meeting

 Wanna go back

 

TEN PERCENT BUDGET REDUCTION…

 Wanna go back

 DETERMINE METRICS TO DEFINE SUCCESS…

 Wanna go back

 SELL TICKETS, SELL TICKETS, SELL SEATS!

    Wanna go back…

 

I would like to claim

dominion over consciousness

parrot the phrase,

 Humans are separate

because we are aware

 except—

 You be good. I love you.

 

muttered from the

beak of a parrot

to this owner/doctor friend

Doctor Irene

 You be good.

 from an animal 

with a brain the size of a shelled walnut.

 

I am not  a member of 

 People for Smart Ass Parrots

 or

 Orangutans for City Council

 

nor am I lobbying for

men and women who

scramble to save their kittens

from Katrina floods

but could give a shit

about black men being turned

back by guardsmen on an escape bridge

out of the ravaged city.

 

But something is going on here

in those little walnut brains.

 

If God is love

then perhaps

 No Mammal Gets Left Behind

 “We”

 is going to have to include more

than just

 “Us”

 which means these animals

have a clue

like the Orangutan who visited

Jane Goodall in her jungle cabin

late one night,

rapped on the window,

took the scientist by the hand,

and pointed to the moon

as if to convey:

 Friend. Look. Share….

Wonder.

 

And so I do.

 

A thirty one year old

parrot

teetering at the edge

as the tiny heart slows

cupped in the hands of Dr. Irene;

imparting while departing,

as beings often do:

 

You be good. I love you.

 

24 Reasons to Date a Tiger

May 1, 2013 in Dating, Tigers, Untamed

Based on my recent dream…

 

24 Reasons to Date a Tiger

1.

Because I had a dream.

 

 2.

Because in this dream

a full grown Bengal tiger

approached my car,

passenger side

and flashed a toothy, flirtatious, grin

 

3.

Because I thought the tiger was damned

sexy and I was fully aware

that he or she could tear my

skin from my bones,

but I didn’t care.

 

4.

Because the owner placed a leash on the tiger

and pulled it away.

 

5.

Because both the tiger and I

had longing in our eyes

as we separated.

 

6.

Because minutes later, the tiger

returned,

tapped my shoulder

with its paw

brought me a business card,

a phone number,

and I really wanted to

call the tiger

call the tiger

after my work,

my day

my unimagined life

and errands

were done.

 

7.

Because on the business card

the tiger was wearing a hat

and acting silly

and trying to convince me

that he or she had a sense of humor

when in fact

I knew that tiger

was not safe

and wasn’t going

to wear that hat

for very long.

 

8.

Tigers are muscular

and have less than 1%

body fat.

 

9.

When a tiger

embraces you,

you are never the same.

 

10.

I used to be a fan

of the

Cincinnati Bengals.

 

11.

If you go on a date

with a tiger,

nobody,

I mean nobody,

is going to

bother you.

 

12.

Tigers really know

how to move.

 

13.

I like partners

with big paws.

 

14.

Because there is nothing

in the Washington RCW

which prevents me from

dating a tiger,

we just can’t get married.

 

15.

I have been trying

to live a life balancing

security

with calculated risk

and it is no longer working.

 

16.

Because I will soon be living

off my retirement

since my unemployment

ran out

and the only plan

left that seems to make

sense

is to live recklessly.

 

17.

Because no one can tell you

who, or what,

to fall in love with.

 

18.

Because tigers don’t belong

in cages,

they belong in savannahs

and occasional art house cafés,

eating croissants

slurping mochas,

and devouring rosemary-infused goat carcasses.

 

19.

Because “the tiger”

means something.

 

20.

Because I am being courted

by a tiger.

 

21.

Because the life courting me

is no longer tame.

 

22.

Because the tiger has escaped

and is stalking me.

 

23.

I am nobody’s prey.

 

24.

I am the tiger.

 

 

 

 

 

Black History

March 3, 2013 in Black History

I wrote a new piece for the Tacoma Community College Black Student Union. Let’s continue to question why black history is herded into a single month rather than looking deeply at what is true U. S. history. Here it is:

Black History

1

I have written these pages

once blank sheets, bleached

and recreated

 in ways that forget

Ghana, Mali, Songhay  and Sundiata,

the founder king of Mali or Askia Muhammad

who formulated modern government and

civil service,

I have swept two thousand years away

like sand and written only one word

on the beach of South Carolina’s Sullivan’s Island:

“Slave”

 as if Africans from a hundred tribes and scores

of empires only began when their chain

blistered ankles arrived on these shores.

This, my friends, is hardly black history.

 

I have singled out a few precious names,

Tubman, Douglas, Hughes and King

as if the arrow of time was a single shaft

with but four feathers, when in fact

if we were to learn you,

if we were to learn us,

 the sky would be thick with arrows

all pointed toward the truth

all threatening our tender hearts

ready to pierce the whitest and darkest

sternums among us

and we would no longer begin and end

our stories in Europe with conquering Popes

and Inquisitions, Conquistadors

marine provisions, just enough to keep a thousand alive

while hundreds threw themselves into the water

rather than face a life that wasn’t free. 

We call that little genocidal journey

the middle passage.

 

But it didn’t work.

You are the gem that survived

that ocean and it shone

in shades of blues

resonating in syncopating poly-rhythms

like the world has never known

and we could not name this perfected,  unfinished

 sound,  so we just called it jazz.

 

 

 

2

The President of Emory College in Atlanta

recently praised the 1787 Compromise

which counted each enslaved African

as three-fifths human,  an example, he said, of how

civilized people could find common ground.

 

Which people?  On whose ground must

he be standing

to fail such basic math?

No one on this earth

has ever been a fraction.

We are all whole numbers

there is only one history

and we inherit the outcome

regardless of the written pages,

we inherit the outcome, in real numbers.

3.

We are again dealing with fractions

One-twelfth,

the historians give us

one twelfth of ourselves

as if history were beans

and our minds were the cup

and they could pour one quarter Tubman

one quarter Douglas

two ounces of Hughes

and a final serving of King

and expect each of us to be satisfied–

bean soup for February

a reduction for twenty eight days.

Did you eat your lunch?

 Because, it is free and reduced.

4.

We think best

when we are fed,

when history comes in eight courses

when the hemispheres and continents are evenly

divided

when Africa and Black America

are  served  year round

when my whiteness no longer means

rationing my investigations in the name of supremacy,

when Sundiata of Mali and

Touissant of Haiti are contrasted in the same chapter,

where the sculpted works of Edmonia Lewis

and Elizabeth Catlett decorate our essays and our tables,

when we improvise in structure, the way our elders taught us

and strike a series of open fifths.  Five.   To form a whole.

 

5.

Can it be both?

 Black history. Our history.

Can it be all?

Black history. Your history. My history. Our history.

Can I own what my ancestors have done

what they still do, what I allow

 and also

 what I am becoming,

what  I could become

what is possible?

Can we stop accepting fractions of ourselves?

Can we take you out of this guest room?

The house is yours. The house is mine.

We share it.

The soup is cooking

tender beans with more names

than we can collect,

with time to eat

to get that recipe

to write the books

from many kingdoms

and stop, for once, bleaching the pages.

Sign

February 19, 2013 in Body Signs, Health, Speak in Signs, The Body, The language of the body

Truth is, in the throes of being pretty sick, I barely even remember writing this. But in retrospect, it was a turning point and I have been listening to my body deeply since. Listen to yours. Don’t ignore the signs. Live well. Eat healthy and abide the language of the body.

Sign

 The body speaks in sign.

Sheds in sign.

Gains in sign.

The body comments

and hurts and grows

small lumps

in signs that

are louder than the rational

wonders of telemetry.

 

The body will force the issue

cause the stop

cease all superfluous momentum

and simply

become the message.

 

The body is a magician.

Bumps may appear and disappear

depending on the whims

of the blood, shadows on the pulmonary

haltings of the fibers

the body does not

allow dishonest lives to remain hidden

it reveals

it presents

it embodies

the soul of place

the attitude of this mind

the sorrow in this chest

the release of this solitude

is in the body, of the body

the body is a record.

The body holds things

the body holds memories

the body

tells a story that we didn’t want to hear

at the moment we need to listen.

 

My body is lighter

while my heavy ancestors

alight from me.

The body has peeled

one layer of burden

in two weeks,

5% of me is gone

In the river of infinite soups

Nyquil and a side of rum.

 

The body is not done.

The body has a full

system of words

and vocabularies

but most of all signs.

 

The body speaks in sign.

The signs are all around.

The signs just keep coming.

The body speaks in sign.

 

New Book in Development

January 30, 2013 in Poems, Vanilla Soul, Vanilla Soul First Published Work

Well finally.

I have a new poetry book in development. It’s called “Practice” and will include thirteen long form poems that represent different practices, some of which will challenge ordinary assumptions around that notion. The manuscript is about to undergo a thorough edit and two photographers are joining with me to capture black and white photos that bring visual accent to the material. I plan to launch the book with a performance and gallery showing of the photos along with narrative excerpts in affiliation with B2 Gallery in Tacoma.  Fingers crossed, I hope to win support from the Tacoma Arts Commission to help subsidize the whole project.

I have been told time and again that I need to be a published author and I agree. So the time is coming soon. I will keep folks posted.

 

The Implications of A Virtual Choir, Two Thousand Strong

January 28, 2013 in Beauty, Collective Voices, The Virtual Choir, Uncategorized

Every once in awhile you get the chance to experience the collective beauty of humanity. Conductor Eric Whitacre invited a virtual choir of over 2,000 people from 58 countries to sing a new piece of music, as videotaped from their computers from cities and outposts throughout the world. The result is breathtaking. These artists young and old, from every walk of life, have joined virtually to create a work that is a living metaphor of what is possible when community joins to co-create. I am offering the link to Eric Whitacre’s TED talk and you can go to the full version of the finished piece with the full context of the story behind it.

We can do this. We can build new systems of expression, beauty, cooperation and brilliance. Come as you are and bring your voice.

Here is the link:

http://www.ted.com/talks/eric_whitacre_a_virtual_choir_2_000_voices_strong.html

 

 

On A Walk Before Morning

January 24, 2013 in Late Dark, Poems

On A Walk Before Morning

 

I am learning to like

the late dark,

not the early moonlight

not the dead center,

not the first edge of mystery,

but the late dark

on paths where you

can hear your feet,

on leaves that can

take your weight,

in this final advance

before morning.

 

I am learning to leave

the late dark

an opening,

after my sorrow,

after realizing

that I gave my best away,

beyond the flittering

rasps

of my early breathless

longings,

I have learned

that the

late dark

is entering me

just when my despair

meets my resurrection

at right angles

that sound

much like

footbeats

at even stride.

 

The late dark

has distance

 

the late dark

has depth

 

 

the late bones

are music

 

the late black

has breath.

 

The break path

has broken

 

the late strides

are tuned

 

the safe way

forgotten

 

the strong way

moving past

the latest dark

which must sometime

soon

succumb to morning.

 

I am learning

to love this late

dark

and leave this late

opening

and long not

for a moon,

a moon

not to rival

the sound

of my own

two feet.

The Dream Was Bigger

January 19, 2013 in A Bigger Dream, Bates 50th Anniversary of March on Washington, Dr. Martin Luther King

I had the chance to present a new work at Bates Technical College’s South Campus. We had a full house and Lyle Qasim presided. We had a wonderful array of folks presenting and I was glad to be a part of it. Some folks wanted a copy of the poem, so here it is…

 

The Dream Was Bigger

 

This dream penetrates

paragraphs of curriculum

that count the dream–

but leave the speech at

Riverside Church

against

Vietnam

out.

 

That was the lesson that taught President

Lyndon Banes Johnson that black leaders

will never be obedient in the end

to which Dr. King

responded,

“ So Be It.”

 

This dream imagines a poor people’s march

on Washington that would made the first one

look like a warm up act, and asks you to wonder

how many leaders need to be shot for poor people

to rise up and say “enough”.

King was just about

to organize that second March

and his death was no coincidence.

 

This dream remembers that the main organizer

of the march was Bayard Rustin, a gay man

who had to keep his identity in the closet

to spare publicity. While Martin dreamed, Bayard organized

rallying mental spread sheets in his head

figuring how he was going to bus them all, feed them all

entertain them all and get them back home with danger

one gun barrel or rabid German shepherd away.

 

This dream is looking with interest at

Idle No More with indigenous geeks

lighting facebook gun powder

igniting the claim for land justice

hundreds of years after the claim was

ignored. This dream likes the beat of the Pow Wow drum.

 

This dream does not ignore the fact that

the United States is a class society

that upward mobility is less like mountain hiking,

and more like extreme rock climbing where the ropes

may disappear at a moment’s notice.

Not everyone can hold on.

 

This dream recognizes

a few people get to take the rail or the lift to the top

 and we call them the one percent and they frequently

 celebrate the virtues of self reliance.

 

So look around you, this dream is a dream of interdependence.

We needed each other then, we need each other now.

No one ever changed society by relying just on themselves.

 

This dream crossed one dangerous bridge after another

with water cannons waiting and  canines trained to attack

women and children and there was no guarantee that

peaceful marches would work anymore than they worked

in Syria where the government answered peace with bullets

and bombs.  Bravery means we do not know the outcome.

Our ancestors were brave.

 

This dream holds the soil of Trayvon Martin

in its outstretched fingers,

and hears the chant of young black men

in Chicago who are dying by hundreds each year

and listens to the simple plea illustrated on

the protest signs which simply says

“I just want to live long enough to grow up”

 

This dream settled into the leg muscles of

Victoria Soto who hid her children and distracted

The gunmen at Sandy Hook elementary and accepted

the odds, her life in the place of children. I am sure Martin would

have mourned her.

 

This dream is restless, unsettled, and believes that

The United States must reinvent itself every

250 years, one quarter of a millennia, or implode

from the weight at the top.

We  have thirteen years left.

 

This dream looks like a ladder, like the DNA strand

that helixes upward, that brought you here,

 motivated you to educate, to grab the ropes

when you could find them, grip the rock crags when

you could not.

 

We are standing on a hill now, all of us

are standing on a hill and I do not have enough

descriptors to explain how different each of you

are Cambodian, Black, Laotioan, Daino, Scotch Irish,

Gender Queer, African Nationalist, Vietnamese, army brat,

Mixed German Caucasian, Seahawk faithful, soon to

be married lesbian couple, Russian Immigrant,

Eritrean, Montana beef fed farm boy, and

no I will not say trailer trash because

you were never trash

and you never will be,

soon to be cosmologists,

dental assistants,

bookkeepers,

paraprofessionals,

Doctors of Astronomy

AIDS workers, Registered Nurses,

Guerilla Organizers

Yoga teachers,

Civil rights scholars

Incest survivors

Mexican American Theater Radicals

Peruvian storybuilders,

Spokane Firekeepers,

blissfully unaware of white privilege

Whole Foods Shoppers,

Organizers to free Leonard Peltier,

Cabinet makers,

Barber psychologists,

Hair dresser therapists,

Teen mothers returning to school

Dream Act nominees

And U.S. Citizens

 

You are unique

But your DNA is climbing

like your hope

and that hope includes all of us,

that hope forms a helix ladder worth climbing

that took us to this hill

that brought us to this dream

that tells us we are in a period

of rapid  REM rapid eye movement

when the dream is most vivid

where the plot thickens

where the turning point happens

where the years seem like days

and we reinvent our nation.

 

We have thirteen years left.