wwjd?

that wristband u gave me, i pinned to a condom and posted it to the vatican.
jesus wept.





(from another conversation about the pope who is apparently catholic...)

babbledabblecrabble

am i angry? no
anger is kinaesthic drive
energy connected
brain in gear
ain't no anger here

i am just weary

marrakesh argument

u asked me if i did kiss the ground when the plane landed
whether i felt reconnected with mother afrique
whether i did rebaptise myself in its sun and drink in its energy
so i told u i weren't in the mood for no afrocentricity

i told you my yoruba tongue got ripped from me half a milenia ago
discarded clinically like placenta and dropped in the atlantic
and then i told you that sometime even mothers go forget they own children
even though same pickney rub belly button and hold fast to she dress

and then i told you i don't need no mother to have piece and rest
i don't need no mother to have piece and rest...
you just choopsed and said
you still ain't answered my question

and i was going to say
that's the problem with today
too many people looking to harvest answers
in fields where only questions get cultivated
where the moment one is plucked
its seeds are scattered on the floor and a dozen more sprout up

what if i'd told u i did kiss the dirt floor
so hard till my lips went raw with mud and dust?
what if i told u i'd thrown myself down and rubbed myself in the clay
until my clothes were torn and my naked skin
was caked with its essence?

or what if i'd told u i spat on the ground and offered it as my libation?
what would it change?
who would it benefit?

because back here
im surrounded by the same gods that line the streets of marrakesh
inauthentic smiles and gestures that fold to frame the words
"viens ici, my frien'.... Obama!" "come look!"

back here
they may not be so bold
but blood still loses out to gold

and smiles fade when things don't get sold

and so i told u i don't need no mother to have piece and rest
no false idols hanging off my neck
no false ideology weighing down my shoulders
no strings to make my head look back

and i ain't buying in
or selling out
or anything...

i'm just telling it as i saw it that day
when u asked me if i kissed the ground when the plane landed
and i told u i weren't in the mood for ur ideology
i've done my history
chased my genealogy
gone beneath the surface and i make no apology
for saying what i said
even though u may not agree
and i just hope it doesn't change what u think of me

cos i'm proud of who i am
proud of who i was
and happy with my life
but at the moment where i'm at, i'm like
i don't need no mother to have piece and rest
and if u don't get where i'm coming from now
then it is what it is

end of


(rough summary/transcript of a heated conversation/argument about heritage/history in my own shorthand/scribble that i mulled over for days/weeks and kind of/not sure if i should delete/edit this... but it is what it is/ain't what it ain't).

Voting booth

I've been marking Xs since day one
Crossing my fingers
Carefully pinching my index finger
Against pencils that feel weary in my hand:
Hours of indecision and hesitation
Seconds of meaningless strikes across a page
I want change

I've been marking Xs
And it feels like an age
That I've been hunched over a booth just scanning names
As vague in my head as the promises behind them.
I want change

I've been ticking boxes for an age
Leaving behind my weightless sheet folded over
Just my sticky grey blemish
The traces of my existence.
I want change

But the change I want is as vague as the names
On the boxes that I scan
And the change that I crave
Can't be placed in a slot
I can't tell you what it is
But I know what it's not

I've been ticking Xs...
It's all pointless.
Just meaningless box-ticking
In isolation
I got to find me
Another polling station

I got to find me