< 9/16/2018

I fear ,
I fear
I am cycling

Back into the chaos
That ensnared
Me before,
This time the monsters aren't near,
Or clear,
But in whispers,
I start to hear

Strange mouths
Utter words that seem familiar,
And I read every word
To be about and for me,
I am curious,
And want to know

Alice, do I go,
Sucked down the vacuum
Down, down

Love and Hurt

Written 2010

I do not know how to foster
the kind of patience, understanding,
and strength that i need, that this requires.
I don’t know how to keep sane
when everything around me
is pure insanity.
i don’t know how to be loving,
though I love,
when everything in my nature
tells me “this hurts, don’t accept, fight back”.
and so, i read and read,
searching in words to find the answers,
that i already know.
answers that are before me
just as stories, stories that tell our lives.
Our lives in different locations,
with different names, and dates. but no solutions,
no fixes.
we are the guinea pigs for this life,
and we’ve so far been dealt a difficult hand.
we love and we hurt,
we hurt and we love
and that is how we live
in our little home

Lesson Learned

June 29, 2005

Pledge allegiance
To a flag
Where I have no rights
If I’m a “fag”?
Check a box,
Or “white”
No in-betweens for skin too light
Deemed the newest fad
Now all’s a sin
Is breathing bad?
“Anarchy!” the children cry
Ignore their pleas
Roll your eyes
The people speak
Of nation torn,
In tatters I think
All the deeds once condemned
Have now been done
Praise our leader
This prodigal son

For my generation
Our future is bleak
When liberal youth
Are refused to speak
Ignore the past
Refuse the truth
In following “tradition”
You are blind to see
The evils of our great society

You say I am free,
But for today,
Tomorrow can you tell me true
What next right will you undo?

Time and time again
We shall recycle
Ignore all that’s done before
Lesson learned
Erase the board.


February 17, 2005
Lost to me
Are a thousand yesterdays,
Lost to me are the words
Foreign to the tongue
While familiar to the ear,
Lost to me are my peoples
The ones that stare back
In pictures of the past,
Lost to me
Is the life,
The nature,
The heart of a land,
I am too far from to call my own,
Lost to me are dreams of unity,
Dreams of peace,
Lost to me are the names,
The voices,
Lost to me is a lineage
I can claim,
Lost to me is another world
Another way,
Label me,
But can you take way
The never knowing
Where you have come from?
Living as if the past had never been,
Lost to me is my identity,
As the child of a line
that is lost to me.

​Cathartic Cry (Post Katrina relief effort)

Sunday, April 30th, 2006 

I haven’t cried yet. What does that mean? Does that mean I’m a cold-hearted bitch? Does it mean I’m numb? Why didn’t I cry there? Why didn’t I cry on the trip back? Why not in my bed at night? In my dreams?

These tears I have to cry, they’re there, they crashing inside. Flooding my heart, but these tears, they’re too damn big to cry.

One week. One week? No, five days. What are five days? Those five days, just one of them was bigger than what my life is, or will ever be. How am I back here now, how do I just step out of a van and back to my life?

I know that no matter how many days I spend with a wonderbar and a hammer I can never do it all. But yet, what is this? What am I doing here? What are papers with letters, symbols, and grades, passing, or failing, doing for me now, for anyone now? How can I drop my hand in helping to hold up the fragile pieces of someone’s life to come to this? To college , where I can bitch about wanting my meat cooked [well-done], where I can procrastinate on a laptop, and take a bus to see a famous writer speak. I can walk in a protest, I can wear my activist gear and colors, but who cares, who hears? 

Who wants to hear my story, my fragmented story of a million stories? Is that all I am to be? The messenger, the storyteller of the lives lost? Only to tell my stories to deaf ears.

Who can understand me, when I am yet to understand them? Who will listen, but my guilty heart, that tells me that knee deep in black sludge is where I belong?

In five days I saw the history of a hundred-plus years before, and to come, play before me. Now I come back and read about it in books written by “authorities,” that place everything in historical context. What about Mike and Ann? What about the anonymous faces that we pass with the sullen, haunted eyes that have seen a hundred years of this. [I am a tourist.] What about the infinite unseen, forgotten, unfound, and unrecognizable? Who will pick up their pieces; rebuild their homes (their graves), if I do not? What is my life worth here, when I am unable to resurrect and reclaim the worth of lives there? 


I miss New Orleans. Is that paradoxical? To miss ground zero? A war zone? A ghost town? The Hiroshima of my day? How do I miss a place that is missing; A place that I have never seen? To which I have no heritage, no ties. But, I miss it. I miss it like I miss the taste of air when underwater. How ironic! I feel like I’m drowning in need to return, to reclaim, to excavate my Atlantis. 


But I miss this, and how much more that has been lost, that I will never know? That money and tools, wood, and steel will never replace. Raise new levees, build new stores, and build your goddamn lush green gulf courses. But know you have made a hole-in-one into the depths of unseen catacombs.

Red and black it dangled in the tree, immobilized for six months. This life preserver, 20 feet in the air– who did it save? And deep inside the lower 9th ward who cares? I do not know you, but I feel you there, my link that will never be broken. I do not know your pain, your fear, your story. But that does not devalue it, nor you, my dear brother or sister. 


Is it possible to form a bond with the dead? That, I am sure will never break. Perhaps I have not cried because that is not my place, these are not my tears to shed. What are tears to you? Have not the waters of the Gulf been enough?


I have a purpose. You have shown me this. But it is not here, not now. I’m coming back to you New Orleans. My precious city. I will find your children, commemorate their lives, and make their burden my own. But the floods will come again. What shall be done? Is it all in vain? No. To forget and abandon is to give up on what was, what is, and what could be. Perhaps it will not always be New Orleans but, another time, another place.


But these “un-cry-able” tears will never go away, and for this I am humbled, and made human. Is this a selfish act? Maybe.

The Science of Mind F***ing

Oct 20, 2007, Revised August 5, 2017

People often told her she thought too much.

Her father always told her she had a ‘big head’, and that it was a source of too much pride.

Her last boyfriend called her a “mind fuck.”

Maybe she did think too much, but she needed answers. They were often answers she knew already but couldn’t accept so easily. Unwilling to accept that things were “because,” likelypissed people off, and hearing “nothing” was never enough for her.

Even when she was little, her independent inquisitions put her in an odd place—or rather back then, it put others in uncomfortable positions, and they were left to contend with a huge brain and mouth on a tiny child’s body.

When she was 3 it was why she had to wear clothes, at 4 it was why mommy had to sit to urinate, and daddy did not. When she was 5 it was why she did not have a black mommy. At 7 she wondered why everyone laughed when she sang her alphabet in front of her 1st grade class. And at 9, it was why she was bleeding and everyone only blushed and looked away in shame at this emergency.

The older she got, the more she kept her questions to herself. When answers were not enough, it was obvious no one else around her could accurately explain things, her questions grew and were buried deeper in her mind.

For starters she never asked why it was that people always told her she was beautiful, but no boys were ever interested in her, romantically. Nor why the most sinful people in her life were usually the first to thump the Bible at her. And she never asked why all the tears she spilled, or pain she felt was excused for the fact that she was “a teenager”.

Maybe it was because her questions irritated, angered, or baffled people that she eventually stopped asking them. And so her head grew in depth as more questions and independent inquiries filled its cavity.

She kept her questions to herself for a length of time, but this, did change, eventually, as she grew into her womanhood. At one time, when she had used a thesaurus, in the midst of writing a “Dear John” letter for her mind-fucked-ex, she found the word, the one that made evertyhing clear to her. It was one of those words one might read a million times in textbooks, or books written by brainy, pretentious fiction writers that your eyes glaze over, ignoring. Maybe had she just looked it up one of those times it would have answered her question of questions.
“Epistemology,” theory of knowledge. Her mind fucking was a science. Knowledge, what was it? The question of questions, what is, what isn’t, and why? Because evidently, she was not the only one who realized that “because” was not an answer.

And maybe this was why she had made so many people so damn uncomfortable; Her innocent questions made others feel inept because suddenly they realized, she was right—they did not know “why.”

By the end, she was damn proud of that letter. It made her smirk to think of him needing to look the word up in an encyclopedia, or rather ignoring it, unwilling to admit he did not know something she did. And she smiled about having the last laugh, the final say, and the final “mind-fuck”.

She laughed as she slipped the letter into the mail and it slid down into the great belly of the blue tin box. As she walked away she whispered defiantly into the thick summer air, “Hope that was as good for you, as it was for me.”