Sunday, April 26, 2009

litany

So in the spirit or refusing to consent through silence, I'll mimick a black queer woman I know (only through her work) and trust. thank you Audre Lorde. So I wrote this poem which is not as good as Litany for Survival, but I wrote this one, and I'm glad.

I've also read this in front of big 'ol groups of people. One group liked it, the other not so much. Audience is important. Bombing is also important.

litany: 1. a prayer consisting of a series of invocations and supplications by the leader with alternate responses by the congregation. 2. a resonant or repetitive chant. b. a usually lengthy recitation or enumeration. c a sizable series or set.

supplicate: 1. ask humbly and earnestly of. 2. to ask for earnestly and humbly.


Litany for the Wordless

"Dear god almighty," has become a curse in my mouth.
A lashing
reaching from fissured enamel
and tongue tip
to say:

I want meat and gnashing teeth--
Meaning to supplement the open mouths.

I give words from sounds.
"Say: Ni. Th. Cu. Cat.
Say: A. a. ah. aa. I i am.

Then I hand her the pen to scribe the words
"He hurts me. When my baby cries
My breasts leak. He bites, and it feels like rape."

dear, christ almighty, save me from the futility of prayer.

Oh, method and practice,
grant me the aptitude to
teach a woman with worn hands,
wooly mammoth hair--
to give her the words to protect
the gash between her thighs--
to save her sons from the wrath of misunderstanding--
to prevent the unraveling of another generation of
passing, of yes sirs, vapid noddings, poverty,
endless migration.

This is for the wordless and the undersexed--
The wordless who mimic for want of identity.
The undersexed who
sleep and
eat and
work alone
for want of mixing love with status.
For the undersexed who's names are
Older than the histories they're allowed to remember.

For the XY's coupling with the XX's I say
We want proud rounded curved bodies to
touch other hard/soft bodies
kindly, gently and with deference.

In acts of work
and
love and
education
I want phonemes and in strokes
to collide
roughly with passion
like an ax to bark or
gracefully like whittling.

Dear god, let them read to know the words
to write to say, "I am, too."

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

minority voices

2/22/09

o que o voce fazendo?

This is what I'm doing.

I went to the AWP Conference last week, so I've been reading these journals. I went to the biggest book fair I've ever seen. 800 tables. 1 table was manned by black people. 1. And 6 or 7 times while I was browsing--I walked by every single table--a nice white lady or two would say--Do you write, and I'd say yes and she would say, "we're looking for marginalized voices," we want to give voice to the women of color (like you), the apostrophized parenthetical. I don't know if you know this about me, ya'll, but I'm black and my snatch is black too. Mostly. Except for the pink park--she's red when she's bleeding.

So I'm reading thee journals, and all of the poems by black women are about erasure and rubbing out the blackness, combating the Bulest Eye Syndrome--violently fighting back. We're ( we meaning the African American women of color) are forced to fight the actions of oppressors 'cause silence still equals consent. I'm so sick of the top tier.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Readings and Music and Books, Oh, My!

I spent the last few days at the AWP conference, and I'm still a little overwhelmed. I walked away with my weight in pieces of paper with stories and poems, non-fiction and memoirs. I shook hands, collected buttons, listened to some of the best contemporary writers in the world. Titillated. Curious. Driven. I felt these things and a lack of focus, like I still haven't found a niche. Still, I have deadlines. I have a deadline in 4 hours. In 6 hours I will be on a stage reading a thing called a poem about a moment or moments or people or a person, and I want to make sure I say something right.
I spent the weekend with a good friend and friends. I drank beer and ate food and lusted after pretty bicycles. I studied portuguese and learned how to say, "Eu sou uma mulher," and I'm beginning to belive it because I am no longer "uma crianca," and I don't want to go back to that. Now I have to look up at "uma ceu azul" and dream grown up dreams, then make them come true. So I'm going to quit procrastinating now. I'll read a poem and then write a poem. Then I'll submit a story. bye bye.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Brazil or Bust/ 25th Birthday Party

Event Info
Host:
Maya Marshall
Type:
Birthday Party/Benefit



Time and Place
Start Time:
Saturday, January 24, 2009 at 7:00pm
End Time:
Sunday, January 25, 2009 at 3:00am
Location:
Poitin Stil
Street:
1502 W Jarvis
City/Town:
Chicago, IL



Here's the skinny: DJ PERV spins from 7-10 & intermittently raffles off prizes; Bachelor Auction from 10-10:30; Karaoke from 11-2am; Pool Tournament begins at 7; Dart Tournament begins at 8; Euchre Tournament begins at 9. Buy into it! Come on out.

The Cause: Send Maya to Brazil for 6 months to teach English and serve the Elderly.

I'm preparing for my mid-twenties identity crisis, and I'd like for you to come dance with me. Play pool with me. Be my Euchre partner. Beat me in Darts. Sing Karaoke, win a basket with wine and cheese in it or an hour long massage. Win lunch or a free cut and color by a lovely licensed cosmotologist. Win one of several other prizes. Come have a beer and talk to some folks you haven't seen in a while.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Green Mill

So I'm getting over my fear of reading on stage. As part of this initiative I went to the Green Mill and read a poem I wrote. It received a good response. Here's the poem I read:

She and I are the daughters of top tier abstractions.
I swallow haloed theories of difference. She plucks
strums, fingers nerves like cello strings vying decency
to escape all things traditional. We're glorified young
women free to drink and tromp along glistening Chicago concrete,
gnash teeth at lascivious old men, use our bodies to free our minds.

With a smoke full mouth this semi-Sappho speaks her mind
into sound symbols--syllables meant to concretize abstractions.
She holds my elbow, sure that this way only her feet will hit the concrete.
"I had a baby once, well twice," she admits. She had them plucked
in time to stop their first breathes. She claimed she'd saved her young
fellow the trouble of trying to care. "It's not about decency,

just time and space." I listen: sirens, jingling spokes, "decency."
On the corner a wrinkled woman squats to piss. I wonder what mind
could think this? The young
in the wilderness are in the wilderness everywhere. Flesh is not abstract,
morals aside. Listen. See Sappho push flesh from flesh, too concrete
a liminal breakage. In the alley by my back gate, a little boy is plucking

the face of an action figure. Index nail to plastic. thump. pluck,
pluck. thump. The sound is eighth notes. "Decency"
is not his concept. His is a night of simple destruction: crush plastic into concrete
walk, resume--thump,pluck,pluck. There is no one around to mind.
This little one is alone in an alley at 1 or 2 or 3 am. Abstractly,
I begin to flick the gate--pling, pling, pling--my focus entirely on the young

boy just steps ahead of me. Sappho speaks, "Aren't you too young
to be out here alone?' No response, just--thump. pluck, pluck.
"Are you lost?" His eyes are grey, milky, He looks up abstractly.
"Doesn't your mom want you in bed at a decent
hour?" He turned to leave calling out, "she ain't here, so she don't mind."
She turns her smile on me, laughs, shrugs. I pull the gate, iron scrapes concrete.

He could be my nightmares made concrete,
The epitome of all things frightening about the young.
Too much to hold on to. Too much to keep in mind.
Sappho says, "grab me another drink. Let me finger then pluck
som music out of you." She's on my nerves, but I concede. Decency
degenerates into ambiguity. Whiskey and want cause abstracton.

Tonight I'll make a mistake characteristic of the young.
It would be indecent to deny an artist the chance to pluck
song into creation, to concretize the lush lust, eliminate the abstraction.

Sunday, August 3, 2008

Striving and Nausea

The following is a late night e-mail composed for someone I care about.

I had this three hour long conversation today that only felt like an hour. There were mentions of: political platforms, AA meetings, shame, damnation, laughter, love, foreskin, the loss of virginity, moments of fraternity. The thing that is sticking with me is the idea that a person who is happy must strive to maintain that satisfaction by constantly replenishing herself/himself. That is, we must eat, sleep, fuck, laugh, cry, do without until we get more, etc. Further, there's the business of life's purpose being to work where work equals satisfy; if one loves to draw or write or dance, organize or eat grass, and one does these/that thing, then that someone has set about doing the work of life and is sustaining happiness. To be happy is to grow because by consistently supplying one's self with fuel is to change--is to do whatever fills the void. That is work in its most healthful form.

For me institutional changes are invaluable, because it is during the transition periods that I find what I have and lack and need. So when I change my home and my job or just when I travel/change my pattern, I find out little daunting and crucial things. I don't like to eat grass, but I love trains. I don't need grand gestures, I need the comfort of sharing minutia. My heart likes to be grounded and constantly moving. When I write about myself now, I do so without referencing people that I care about. Perhaps as you send off two of your loves you can send them with letters in their hands about how you've best learned to be happy--sated. I'm sure you'll use your own definition
(your ability to find this is part of your beauty), and then they'll be engaged in conversation with you as they take off. It would be rude not to answer, no? *Poof* a paper bridge between your heart and theirs.

Still, the transition is a rough one. Being more alone makes me feel like I'm preparing for another pubescent phase--I feel like I'm at the part where I have to redefine all of my terms because they're relevant only to the people/places/things in my life that are changing all at once. It is a type of nausea, a sea sickness that stays until you get your legs. It seems to me that you're in a phase like this--will I have a new job? Will some friends become closer as other move toward different bodies of water? The beautiful part is all of the living that happens just before we get a hold on things--just before we finish defining our terms. Those are the feelings we're fully experiencing--all of those sensations without specific terms. These are the conversations that friendships are made of, no matter how far away our bodies are.

It is late, and while I can feel what I'm trying to say, I suspect that I haven't made it all very clear. I told you that I would write to you. I told you that I like to spend time thinking about you while I'm doing something for you. So, I've written, and I'm glad. All I really wanted to say to you, specifically, is that I hope you don't feel more alone in the world, because no matter where they are you've got people loving and thinking about you.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Published Review

Not my best work, but I didn't have the best raw materials. Here's my latest review.

http://www.talesofourtime.com/novelreviewexcerpts.html

One must start somewhere.