flies.

there are no starving babies on my block
sucking on air like the blue breeze is a warm bottle
no crows hovering for the final step
or flies sticking to the children’s breath
no matter how many times
i tear out pictures in a magazine
or weep at the somber scene on my television screen
then blog pictures for the world to see
i am not there.
my hunger struck early, too.
but it still left a residue
on the outsides of my cheeks.
the every day honey combs, reeked
the stink of urban black american poverty,
but still left crumbs for the feeding of roaches.

reflecting on a james baldwin quote got me thinking & feeling.

” I was born in the nightmare of the white man’s mind. “
- james baldwin



to be honest, i want to cry for days

willow weep a flood

and sink the debris

of fresh new white sheets

and create a sea

to wash away the everyday madness.

but the landfill
would still
reek

and we wouldn’t be clean
of it all.

i don’t have any other answer.

i would dance
but he stole the rhythm

i got it back
but only in a two step

i would sing
but my voice is cracked

i am barely breathing

i would crack
but i am stone cold sore

and solid

in the evil

of the white mans mind.

"they"

i am told

to write more than twenty lines

and speak the names

of ‘they’ for which i speak of



over and over again

i am told

to shave off the mystery

and let the kinks

fall to the floor

in black thick heaps

so they can understand



i am told to stop

writing ‘they’

and speak the name

of the white folk

or the friend

or the lover

or the ‘they’ who

i know is me

cause no one believes me

until i speak a name



my words

are not paint

and they cant see the face

but i am a painter

with a pencil as a brush


my abstract nature

is just a sign that i don’t know myself

is what they say

she says

(the woman

who always asks me to write more than twenty lines)

'stop making lines

so short

use the whole page

to say

what it is you have to stay

and stop using ‘they’

cause no one understands that

you are not a painter

and they want to see the face'

she says

'go deeper in to yourself

and use bigger words

and why are colors

abundantly used

there is much more in this life

you know, than colors

much more to put in your poems

and the sun is a tired

fixture

in your twenty lines

and it's dying out

and you are getting dry

write a full line

use better description

and stop writing about

not being a poet

when you know

that that is all you have ever been

and stop trying to slam

when you are soft

and sincere

and dont like people

interrupting you

with ooooh and ahhhhs

cause then you forget your spot

and feel lost

you never needed that

but at some point someone told you

you did

and you could never perform

those pieces

cause you are a baby blue

bird who chills in the nest

and loves to write short lines

about color

with small words

but you cant keeping using ‘they’

cause people want to recognize

faces

when they read your shit

they are lost

inside the shit

you write

they shake the head

and say with flat eyes

i like it

thats good

but they need you to write a little more

than twenty lines

and make your sentences longer

and admit that you are a poet

and you got a purpose

and you have more than twenty lines

inside of you.'

the summer of my sista

you stole my womb, sista
that sordid summer
when
you were my June


that joyful july
when the sky sat still to watch us
spread a wicked wild fire
on treeless streets

sista
i saw you smear her brown face
disfigure her soft taupe
and cloak her in burnt red

you ripped her
right from my arms
sista
you made her call you mother
then set fire to my name

and sista
i’ve been trying not to love you the same
way i did last summer


becauase sista, you hurt me
real ditch deep
then told me to get over it
like you don’t ever bleed

and we both know you do.

see sista
i loved her saccharine sweet
how she kicked
my tangerine tummy with her black feet
how she caught the rhythm
of my movement
and danced inside of me

it was you who helped to plant the seed
inside of the barren land
i could never reach
alone

sista do you remember
our side by side
summertime?

how we sank into the seared
summer blind?
watching the world
with soft smiles
in hard homes.

sista
do you remember
big black girl bike rides
in place of telephones?

those days when
our laugh
shook the city
before it all got this gritty
before you got so greedy
before summer
stopped her seething.

but sista
i saw her the other day
bouncing real fine
yeah, she was happy, round and brown
as my new full belly

and i was happy
to see her dancing
even if she didn’t remember
the auntie
who carried her
breathed life
inside her flat back

she never
had the chance to be held in my hands
but it is in her blood to know my dance

and
i am happy to see her dancing

z.bediako

when you got that flow.

slither.

it is 12:44 a.m.

she is sleeping
when the snake arrives
side winding
against her backside
slithering his sour self
across her humid hips
dipped dark in summer drape
she awakes
starched stiff
quietly pressing
her thighs together
like two spiraling twist ties
being steamed flat
on a white unyielding ironing board
he grows outside of her
as she shrinks
inside herself
he slinks against the
complex brown
he doesn't care
that she doesn't want him
that she will still feel him - crawling
in his absence
nor does he dare
to hurry or hush his heavy breathing
he doesn't even bother to avert his eyes
during family dinners.

19th Street U.S. Postal Service.

He stood still
at the front of the line
but backed away at my entrance.

My southern self could smell his
request, for a few minutes of a gentle listen.

"I am not waiting to be helped"
he said.
He gently pulled his hat off his graying head

"You see,
I haven't been back to this neighboorhood
since I was a child. This use to be my favorite
place to come and be rowdy.

Now, This neighboorhood used to be a lot different you know,
You see that shop over here, belonged to Mr. So & So.
Now white folks, drinking coffee
Where the AME church burned down
And there is a bar
above the burial ground.

It's been a real long time,
30 years to be exact.
This is the only business, that remains intact.

His sugary sweet eyes
glided across the freshly waxed floor

"Nothing around here is the same anymore."




Inspired by a conversation I had with a man in the U.S. Postal Office in North Philadephia.