Tongue Rhythms

flies.

2011-10-31T18:17:00.002-04:00

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.

2011-08-09T11:36:00.001-04:00

” 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"

2011-08-02T09:46:00.002-04:00

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

2011-07-19T15:39:00.017-04:00

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.

2011-04-21T15:15:00.004-04:00

slither.

2011-04-19T11:37:00.014-04:00

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.

2011-04-19T10:22:00.010-04:00

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.

the wisher.

2011-04-13T13:06:00.014-04:00

i've been busy making my mind up
on the corner of 45th and Baltimore
walking in wonder
- a wandering wisher
wishing i wasn't wasting
so much time.

the secret to life
is fresh on my mind
i got it from a book
i bought for only 9.99

stuck stark in dream
for miles, so it seems
now that i understand
the weary way of things.

untitled.

2011-04-13T12:43:00.014-04:00

them winged birds won't ever fly

just jump up high to sift the sky

they'll run away to lemon hill

then sit down flat on ferris wheels

them winged birds will never soar

they'll merely strut the corridor

they'll walk away from open doors

then close them shut and kiss the floor

them winged birds won't ever swoop

they'll only envy parachutes

shoot the shit inside the coop

ignore the wind and droop.

The Bloom.

2011-04-10T01:00:00.000-04:00

and even though
the flowers loom
im still waiting for you
and even though
the flowers loom
im still saving space for you

im not scared of the bloom
im not scared of the bloom

and even though
the flowers grow
im still hoping to see you soon
and even though
the flowers grow
i'm still staying in tune

cause im not scared of the bloom
cause im not scared of the bloom

thought she was coming back to me
but her heart was in another galaxy

madlib instrumental / inspired by 'flowers' by dudley perkins.

brightlightlowsongs. coming soonish.

red, white, and real blue

2010-12-15T17:05:00.002-05:00

i use to have play dates
with revolution.
her red moved me into march like a tricycle.
her black taught me to feel the midnight blind.
her green sat soft, as blades bent under my skin.
but somehow i lost her crimson
in the white fog
and oh,
its got me real blue

Cityscape

2010-11-03T08:51:00.009-04:00

for veronica

it is cold today.

the wind is bitter and on a rampage

- cold and deliberate

targeting every one in her path.

folks are finally packing up their folding chairs

and abandoning their porches by reason of autumns bleak blossom.

vibrantly colored scarves are draped for the draft

under ill fitting fall coats.

wooden toggles timidly stretch across satiated summer bellies.

the loquacious mouths of the bus-stop regulars keep quiet now

as mouths must double as warming devices for wrinkled fingers.

philly natives fall in to rhythm

while southern souls, like me,

stay stiff

and off beat

trying to get the hang of thanking god for the warmth of 40 degrees.

homeless men and women

waste no time in worry

the impending season,

sends them in survival mode

an intrepid scour

through downtown for shelter.

most settle for populated parks, heat vents in the middle of busy sidewalks

and underground train terminals that reek of desperate piss.

black garbage bags, heavy with scrap material and newspaper,

sit beside them like the loyal stray dog they can't afford to keep.

there is so much around me.

so much to see.

the streets are busy in whizzing whirls of traffic.

impatient drivers raise fists, pound on horns, and text with the free hand

pedestrians ignore crosswalk demands and chatter on cell phones but manage to keep their way.

i am rushing

- trying to catch the trolley i know is dropping off riders as a line forms outside of the double doors.

i try to run sometime, but only manage to muster a slight gallop.

most of the time the trolley has passed and i lean against the chipped green pole

and get a book out to read as i wait for the next one.

today, i was lucky.

i caught the line and even got a seat to myself.

i'm seeing the world with different eyes now-a-days.

i find myself looking out for things i'd love to share with you when you come visit

i tell myself that it is healthy to think about other things, too,

and i manage to take my mind off of you

but even when you're not in the front of my thoughts,

you blend into the background like the perfect soundtrack

as i navigate the cityscape.

the death of hope

2010-11-01T11:50:00.017-04:00

i hope that
Hope can be had again.
for now her birth is bound
- tied
to an electric chair
all for a promise of an election snare
- strapped down
by kindred ropes
Hope swings
with a tilted neck
as wooden rocking chairs
creak a familar hum
the waiting
too quickly numbbed
the aggitation
harmonies corrode the bitter spritual
nothing is sweet
about pungent / incumbent victory
and hopeful voices faded
cuz change is constantly baking
but we have yet
to taste the flavor
i smell the burning of sing-sing souls
that fry
- i cry
for Hope
and she dies
lying motionless
in applauding, blind, hope-less eyes.

crazing timing / summers thoughts

I'd rather rot.

2010-11-01T11:47:00.006-04:00

everywhere i go.
i am told to buy and believe.
everywhere i step.
signs, rhymes, even mimes tell me
to give in to greed.
most places that i see
are empty
of free.
most places i dwell
are full
of corporate seed.
please
just let me be.
please
just let me breathe
this dirty air
keeping my lungs black
and your pockets green
please just let me
be
to rot
in my community
its natural
to be birthed
- brown
- wilt
and fall
while
modified
wax paper
sky scrapers
stand tall.

Saving Souls - A poem for Pakistan

2010-09-15T16:45:00.001-04:00

Turned the tv to

Broken bodies bents backwards

gory gymnasts

but the split

ain’t athletic.

straight-up on some survival shit

- Sprinting from torn homes

to grab hold of

something sturdy

to simply stay standing.

as life carries love away

swimmers weeping in flood water

mixing tears with brown fear of

drowning with hands up

towards an empty sky

peace is silent there

hiding in dry places

i can’t imagine how the air sounds

well, i can - but

the thought takes me to a place

i can’t open the door to

so i turn the channel

maybe today oprah will be giving away souls.

mind fucking - six haikus for her.

2010-08-31T13:35:00.005-04:00

she peels a layer

i am open to her flesh

i taste her passion

sweet around my lips

and i am fine with her tears

bitter tastes all right

on middle fingers

and she takes me much deeper

i savor insides

i find beauty there

juicy drippings - her story

pulls me much closer

a thirst for her lull

bright lit nights of simmering

stewing , rising hearts

i swallow her pulp

it sinks to the base of me

inside, i am full

Tender [Sistas] Love & Care

2010-07-27T11:33:00.008-04:00

For Iresha

Black women don't love each other. Put it to talk shows, music, and most forms of popular media - we only fight, clash and argue over men. Sad thing is - I fear that some of us have started to believe this! How many sistas (or maybe even you) have said , " I can't be friends with females because they only cause drama." This outlook has always been problem-fucking-matic to me because many of the same young women who make this declaration can't seem to have high-functioning positive relationships with the black men in their lives either. Often even tolerating emotional, verbal and physical abuse from them (which is another piece to write for another time) Moreover, these are women themselves! Whats up with the disconnect?

In truth, there has always been a strong, I believe - cardinal bond that characterizes the relationships between black women. Historically, from African enslavement through Jim Crow and our present days of continued racism and oppression, black female friends have survived off of friendships between each other. We have also challenged our oppressions with shared political agendas. Not only do we serve as emotional support for one another, but black women have always had other black women to serve as an extended kinship network as well. How many of your mothers friends are your aunties? We have always been more than friends . We are sistas.homegirls.crews.cousins.kinfolks.girls.sistren. We mother each others children, stick up for each other, sustain friendships, provide balance for one another in a world of constant oppression.

As Iresha told me one morning, Black women need a new space to communicate with each other. Lets be real. A healthy relationship between black women can be challenging to sustain. We are often victims of intersecting oppressions (sexuality, race, socioeconomic background) and it can feel that we are in competition for lack of resources. Friendships between sistas take work & understanding. How many of us who buy in to the notion that females bring too much drama try to dissect what all that drama is about? Is homegirl always arguing because she has self-image issues in a society that objectives her body? Is your girl selfish because she didn't have much growing up and doesn't really know how to share? Does your sistafriend disconnect whenever you all really need to get things done because she lacks confidence in her academic potential because she went to low-performing schools all of her life? I'm not suggesting these are the only conditions our sisters are in, but we must be honest - a disproportionate number of sistas are affected by systems of oppression. True - sometimes a friend can be flat out trifling and no excuses can be made and perhaps a friendship isn't worth saving. But through personal experience I know that I've lost or disconnected from sistafriends when the friendship just needed a little tender sistalove & care. It is worth it to find out. That bag lady may be having a hard time letting go . Maybe as a friend you should ask her how can you build her up instead of finding it so easy to let her go. All of us don't come to friendships as buildings claiming to be fully erect looking for a place to stand. Sometimes a sista may come to you in search of stones, wood, bricks, mud, or siding .
Lets build her up.

written 6/22

A new article was written on this :
http://crunkfeministcollective.wordpress.com/2010/09/19/females-you-just-cant-trust-em-and-other-lies-women-believe/

Leeches.

2010-07-20T09:02:00.005-04:00

Written in a short writer's workshop called, objects and memorials for individuals affected by incarceration.

glass jars take me close to him
crystal clear country cups
we used for everything
- making sweet peach preserves
- sweating from icy water to take slow sips
- warming alcohol to spread against mosquitoes
holding leeches.
leeches.
flipping over brown muddy rocks
was a sticky georgia pass time
with cousins so close they were your sisters and brothers.
with different mothers.
who were your mothers, too.
my auntie sara bell only allowed six people to come in to her house:
me, my siblings ami and shaka, our cousins eli and elsa, and our fathers.
she lived on the outskirts of atlanta in a small country shack.
across from her lived a sister she never talked to, mary bell.
grass touched sky at sara bells. the high blades hid us, swallowed us in a nature
one slow day me, ami, eli and elsa were flipping over rocks when we noticed grayish slimy creatures. one and then twenty.
we ran to eli and asked him what they were. he said, leeches.
crawl slow. suck blood. take life.
He told us we better run 'for they ate our ashy legs. Later that night, three sleep in a bed in our bigmama's house. eli awakened us with fear in a glass jar. leeches.
crawl slow. suck blood. take life. it scared us to death.
now eli sits in his own glass jar.
out in some country county jail with blades he probably wished were green and touched the sky.
in a system that
crawls slow.
sucks blood.
takes life.
we found out that those leeches were only slugs. harmless creatures we eventually melted with a teaspoon of salt.
but with eli
the leeches
are there to stay.

Rhythms, An update

2010-07-15T15:19:00.002-04:00

I'm writing a lil bit.
Singing. a lot.
Trying sync the discord
in my head & make harmony
of the clashes.
Had some loss.
Had some gains.
Trynna pull out
something great from the pain.

Parallelogram

2010-03-29T07:24:00.001-04:00

thirsty ears
parched mouth
thick diverted eyes
memory scans
swallowed interruptions
inevitable emotional tape
breaking the ribbon
watering eyes
tickling throat
stinging nose
hold it back
hold it back
hold it back
breathe
now let it out
then
let
go.

Biting Apples

2010-03-19T16:36:00.014-04:00

it seems like it took forever for my two front teeth to grow in. i don't know if this is due to bad memory or if i was really snaggle tooth until i was ten. on the rare occasion that i get together with cousins in memphis; i get mocked by the memory of this boisterous, toothless tattle tale with a lisp. but be sure - lisp and missing teeth in tow - you weren’t shutting me up. i expressed myself faithfully. my twin sister could sing better than me but i sang the exaggerated solo’s from the early eighties. i wasn’t very timid yet. i danced carelessly, wild as the wind, to nina simone's vibratto. i would do the snake all the way down to the floor when company came and cabbage patch it right back up. HOOOOOOOOO. i miss those days now. i miss her. i believe life in america does that to you - estranges you completely from your most healthy self.

i’m starting to love that my childhood photos are beginning to look archaic . now that i find myself riddled with self doubt about almost everything; it feels good to look at an old picture and think of a time in my life when i didn’t worry about much. development was understood. i was eventually gonna get my two front teeth. i was snaggle tooth - but so was everybody else at one point in their lives. as a child, what you lacked didn’t engender such strong repercussions. development was understood. now just because i grew some titties & sprung up a few feet - i’m encouraged not to make any mistakes. mistakes are much more pricey, i guess. not that childhood made you immune to disasters. childhood has it’s worries. but it seems those worries are all about survival. in adulthood i’ve got worries that i can’t make sense out of.

why should i worry about paying student loans back because i chose to get an education so that i may be a productive member of society?

why should i have be a victim of a myriad of oppressions simply because i was born with brown skin?

why is it that when i go to the doctor when i am not feeling well my instincts about the dysfunction of my body is questioned because american doctors learn from books that study white men?

why do i have to pay for water?

why does a black neighborhood that was once bombed by the philadelphia police because really they were afraid of the radical power of MOVE now look like hippie heaven for white gay queers with dogs with bandana’s around their necks?

why do i complain so much about things i can’t change about myself so much that it overshadows the things i should love?

why couldn’t mj get all the love & the support from his “fans” when he was alive instead of an outpouring of it when he is not here to see it? why is it often that way with the figures we love?

why did audre have to die of cancer? june?

why do i have to convince someone that, my sexual preference isn't a result of my inability to get a man?

it seems our society is less understanding of the things we lack. even though the majority of us never get the real skills we need to survive on planet earth? real things like - building a fire, catching/growing our source of food, building shelter, purifying water. instead, we are punished for the lack of artificial things - lack of computer skills, interview skills, proving to someone youse smart enuf to get in ta dey skool (thats what they see when they read my transcripts)? we all make mistakes. it seems like we’re less likely to find understanding people because some how we’re led to believe that perfection is attainable. and instead of people admitting that most of us COLLECTIVELY live in pain, in fear, in silence, in blaring marginalization, poor, hungry, tired from our 9-5s, - we want the INDIVIDUAL gains. so we explode inside because we want a car. a house. a got damn golden haired dog.

sometimes i just get tired of dreaming of a revolution. why do i got to fight for a cause thats so motherfucking apparent. why i got to ask for rights? its a right. thats like having to ask someone about to throw down why they have their fists up in the air. SURVIVAL.

i’m still growing. at 25 i don’t have all my shit together. and i’m learning to accept that maybe i never will. how can you really get it together in a place like this?

any time i wanted a an apple when i was missing my two front teeth one of my sisters would have to take the first bite to start it off (was i wrong for demanding they give me the piece they bit off? smile) after that i’d graze the rest of the apple with my side teeth. that was a pratical support system. in childhood a support system is excepted as a complete neccessity. i’m advocating that we all have someone else to bite our apples for us when we’re still in the process of developing. a friend to kick back and laugh with and will be tender with you when you’re feeling that oppression climbing up your back. you gotta be in the habit of being someone else’s support system, too. find some chillen’ to tutor cause mama work nights. babysit your niece one day because you know your sister raising those kids by herself. cause world, we all out here struggling. & we are all out here trying to comprehend this madness. and we’ll forever be in the process of developing. in to what? well, i’m not so sure about that anymore.

but i’m just sayin.

Audre Lorde

2010-03-18T07:47:00.005-04:00

Generation
Audre Lorde

How the young attempt and are broken
Differs from age to age
We were brown free girls
Love singing beneath their skin
Sun in their hair in the eyes
Sun their fortune
The taste of their young boy's manhood
Swelling like birds in their mouths.

In a careless season of power
We wept out our terrible promise
Now these are the children we try
For temptations that wear out face
And who came back from the latched cities of falsehood
Warning - your road to Nowhere is slippery with our blood
Warning - You need not drink the river to get home
For we purchased bridges with our mothers' bloody gold
We are more than kin who come to share
Not blood, but the bloodiness of failure.

How the young are tempted and betrayed
To slaughter conformity
Is a turn of the mirror
Tim'es question only.

Echo
Audre Lorde
I hear myself drought caught
Pleading a windy cause
Dry as the earth without rain
Crying love, in tongue of false thunder
While my love waits
Like a seeded trap in the door of my house
Mouth bound with perfect teeth
Sure of their strength on bone
While my love waits
To swallow me whole
And pass me as echos of shawdowless laughter
Quiet
My love
Waits at the door of my house.

In my yard myths of rain
Hang like a sheet of bright-caught silk
Torn in the sun.

numbness of a cheat

2010-03-17T23:28:00.019-04:00

she smiles in her sleep
arousing the deeply dwelling dimples
to peek through the flesh of her cheeks

i yearned for that sweetness
that thickly sheltered the
seed of my peach

but

a jungle of streets
vine'd every mile in every city
between our heartbeats

then i grew weak
i was reckless,
necklace'd my words with deceit
until guilt choked the language
i was too afraid to speak

three weeks
of sour silence
tasting of bitter retreat

her heart stained in gray,
stiffly settled in to concrete

dis hyeah wre'ched life

2010-03-11T12:56:00.022-05:00

din haf no time ta mek mah bed
too many questions in mah head
will i's make it thu dis day?
has yestidays sorrows been slept away?
will dey let me in dey school?
is i's good enough to mule?

ti'ed ti'ed becomes my song
but i's best keep truckin'long
hush mah thoughts , hop on dis bus
rowdy chillen makin fuss

i's gots a-plenty bills ta pay
wreckin they neva go away
gotta write ta stay alive
but busy wit mah nine ta five
feel dis rope 'round mah neck
'spect poplar trees grow out mah check!

thougt i's free but i's been bought
gots no time ter waste in thought
i jus wanna simply be!
wid oud whitey 'trollin me!
tell me how ta fix mah face
tell me how ta say my grace
laughin bout the way i's speak
laughin bout the free i's seek
take mah seeds and watch me starve
take mah kinks and watch them fall
din my grandma give huh all?
din dey make mah grandpop crawl?

wheres joy in dis hyeah wre'ched life
my bests friends be "pain" and "strife"
what da meanin of dis american dream?
an awful joke? a ter'ble scheme?
well i's not really finish wid dis hyeah poem
wanna write much mo 'bout dis awful storm
well dats too bad i's out of time
i'm on the clock my mind ain't mine.

reading pld every night did this to me.

dis hyeah wre'ched life should be read aloud. (do it!)

Opportunity
PLD

GRANNY'S gone a-visitin',
Seen huh git huh shawl
W'en I was a-hidin' down
Hime de gyahden wall.
Seen huh put her bonnet on,
Seen huh tie de strings,
An' I'se gone to dreamin' now
'Bout dem cakes an' t'ings.

On de she'f behime de do'--
Mussy, wat a feas'!
Soon ez she gits out o' sight,
I kin eat in peace.
I bin watchin' fu' a week
Des fu' dis hyeah chance.
Mussy, w'en I gits in daih,
I'll des sholy dance.

Lemon pie an' gingah-cake,
Let me set an' t'ink--
Vinegah an' sugah, too,
Dat'll mek a drink;
Ef dey's one t'ing dat I loves
Mos' pu'ticlahly,
It is eatin' sweet t'ings an'
A-drinkin' Sangaree.

Lawdy, won' po' granny raih
W'en she see de she'f;
W'en I t'ink erbout huh face,
I's mos' 'shamed myse'f.
Well, she gone, an 'hyeah I is,
Back behime de do'--
Look hyeah! Gran' 's done 'spected me,
Dain't no sweets no mo'.

Evah sweet is hid erway,
Job des done up brown;
Pusson t'ink dat someun t'ought
Dey was t'eves erroun';
Dat des breaks my heart in two,
Oh how bad I feel!
Des to t'ink my own gramma
B'lieved dat I 'u'd steal!

http://www.dunbarsite.org/gallery/Opportunity.asp
Go here to listen to this poem.

a poem for chile.

2010-03-03T10:55:00.003-05:00

say thanks for the 25 satellite phones
and send them home
before they set up shop at your feet
take the water bottles
drink from them quickly
wipe the residue of thirst from your cheek
then send them home
before they set up more
spaces at your womb
pill every beige band-aid from the paper
and place them generously on your wounds
and even on unbroken brown skin
then
send them home
before they set up more
space at your hearts
because the heartless only sees
something to take
at cupped hands.

(de)ath of (compos)ition.

2010-03-03T10:54:00.002-05:00

(de)ath of (compos)ition.

i am making my
home here
amidst this poignant silence
and search for sound.

i will bury my
soul here
in the thick of my
quiescent mind

i'll accept it as the
plague that has
claimed my life
strangled my words
bent them so far back
i'd think of them as extinct
if i couldn't feel the edge
of them wiggling,
like free fingers
nearly lifeless at my base

i'll assent to this perpetual block
and hang a flag
let it be gallant
reading:
here i rot,
here i sprout
here i decompose.

untitled.

2010-03-03T10:51:00.001-05:00

today i realized that the sunrise lies in a pile of dog shit
equipped with the step of my shoe the smelly sticky stank round mass sticks, aromatically on my heel
i feel confident that my birth was simply a love song between the orchards
that complicated but endorsed the time and filled up space
space, maybe is the stretch of the smile on a pyramids face
after a joke was made by the constellations
tomorrow though, i'll question the earth and seas
long for an quivering airplane flight to attempt to climb back inside my mothers womb
to escape this doom or maybe i'll just acclimatise the taste of cayenne peppered on my soothing thumb
and bend in to a fetal position and watch the world go numb.

beige band-aids for your brown skin.

2010-01-13T11:50:00.002-05:00

we, the united states of america
offer you
full assistance
now that
your city
has been destroyed.
now that
stones cover your blue babies
whose empty belly
never hurried our help.
we offer you
full assistance
now that
the west can't stifle your shrill cries
or place a blind eye
on your pre-existent
disaster zone
we offer our hand as
furious legs
scatter the city,
violent with panic
we offer you
food now that many cant be fed.
but you are used to hunger.
we offer you clothes
although many backs lay flat
but you know rags very well.
we offer you clean water now
when sister can't drink
but your buckets been heavy with brown water
we offer you
beige band aids
for your brown skin
to cover deep scars
dusty amid the rubble
but you were wounded
before the quake swallowed
the suffering.

all i care is to smile in spite of it

2009-12-18T17:28:00.004-05:00

i guess this is a poetry blog?

benath bridges
he sat/roamed/sleeps
tin cans provided
his feed
under the coaster
he rides.
i push him
out for the tide
when i walk by
eyes refusing to meet
his desperate gaze
try not to be fazed
but i am.
whats change to me?
but soda & sugary sweets
to add to the obesity.
oh how i wish to become
a citizen of the world
but america owns me
i'm still singing slave songs
with shackles 'round the angles
language forgotten and
soul at the bottom of the sea.
i dangle from ships
and got thrown aside
but i cook the rice
like my grands ain't died
i want to be a citizen of the world
but america owns me.
i pay debt cuz i wanted to be educated
got credit cards just
so i could eat
kissed folks way heavy
just to prove my love
for those who would
only follow - if someone were to seek

i just penned a lengthy rant regarding the stressful work day i've just endured. umph .endured. after reading it, i quickly decided to hammertime the backspace key. for the last couple of weeks i have felt a simultaneous inclination to pour and parch myself from social networks/blogs on the interwebs. i recently read an entry that epitomizes my reasons for deactivating my facebook, myspace, & qbg page (well, there is more to that. but not today). but i guess i have to figure out a way to articulate my desire to spew out my heart and soul on a blog. and therein lies the problem: my inability to articulate myself. i am not a skillful writer/speaker. or at least skillful enough to express myself fully. in reading femi's words i was frustrated that i couldn't find those words. i often feel that way when reading blogs. i get tired of writing "me too" and "i couldn't have said that better". its frustrating when you can't synthesize your thoughts. its hurtful when the complexities of an opinion, or an idea are so overwhelming that you simply mute the thought, muffle the voice or in my case, quiet the keys. admitting that i am not a good writer- at best mediocre was extremely difficult. but, i have had to come to terms with that reality among some other truths. i've had to come out a few times in my life. i've had to come out regarding my sexuality, my agnosticism, and most recently i've had to come out for being a little ..........dumb. i know that sounds self depreciating but just as it could be hard to read, its hard to discover about yourself. some would disagree about the writing, but they don't know my struggles when communicating. they don't see how many drafts i go through. and when i say drafts i mean the first three sentences. they don't see what hasn't been produced. my heart feels it. in conversations and arguments i often shut up simply because i can't find the words. cultural criticism has been put on an indefinite hold as i have recently realized my inability to critically analyze information. while i read incessantly; i rarely retain information. i often read things over and over until it sticks. for a while i thought this was related to attention deficit disorder. my good friend who just recently got her masters degree in school psychology is certain i do. but i've yet to get that checked out. penn wants 1,000 bucks up front to check me out. ::crickets::

oh tangents.

yesterday while reading the introduction to volume one of the complete works of alice nelson-dunbar (paul lawerence dumbars ex-wife) i came across an excerpt that encapsulates one of my most pronounced unsettling truths:

" one senses that in practically everything that alice dunbar-nelson wrote a driving desire to pull together the multiple strands of her complex personality and poetics. Yet this desire seems to be undercut or subverted by an opposing - and perhaps ultimately more powerful ambivalence (i want to say schizophrenia)"

more about that another time i guess.
this became another lengthy rant, but i'm keeping it.

my first entry wasn't even about that. it was about how difficult it is being an administrative assistant on bad days because people want to dump chit chat on you. all i wanted to do was tell them to give me fi'ty feet. to cury my annoyance i listened to "lush life" for most of the day; the operative lyric being:
" all i care is to smile in spite of it."

oh coltrane....

freestyle ahem.... wednesday.

2009-12-09T13:37:00.000-05:00

true story.

so,

she asked "what is this!?"
i said,
"a dead rotting carcass
on the shoulder of some highway."
i can't
even if could
make you stay
when will the maggots come?
clean up what we have..... become."

& so i wrote a little ditty.

.maggots.

music by Bonobo (if you dont know them get to know them)

i loathe break-ups. especially the ones that never seem to ever end. you ever break up with some one for months? MONTHS! of course not. i'm the only one who goes through this.

I recorded a remix to Twice by Little Dragon on the ex-factor instrumental but the vocals are off & you cant play with Yukimi. So I decided not to share that.

I was actually going to write more to this, but then it started reminding me of Fiona's "Carrion" so I gave up on it & decided just to let the genius ride...

My feel for you, boy
Is decaying in front of me
Like the carrion
Of a murdered prey
And all I want is
To save you, honey
Or the strength
To walk away

I can't seem to write (creative) anything. I've been trying. I started working on something today but i ain't really feelin it. I have like 4 blogs that i named but can start. I really just one this one - a poetry blog & then another one - but yo' I can not formulate any thoughts. I used to think i would be this intellectual person who was a good writer & all that.... but more and more I am realizing that it isn't me. It was really difficult to come to that conclusion. Academia is not for me. I don't have it in me apparently. I am horrible at critical analysis. I am not the best articulator (a red line is telling me that is not a word). I use too many metaphors in my communication. And all that jazz.

freestyle mondays

2009-11-30T21:07:00.000-05:00

so a hobby of mine is making up little ditty's to instrumentals. i usually record them on my cell phone or some small little voice recorder/mp3 player. no fancy technology. you can hear clicks and scratches in the background. and i like it that way. i'm not sure whats making me want to share these - but what the hell. i got dirty stanky love for downbeat instrumentals. these songs are usually about a minute long cuz i'm making them up as i go. they're usually less than prolific but they seem always capture exactly what i'm feeling at the moment.

so i'm satisfied.

sometimes.

not sure where i got the music from (which sucks)

i wish there was a song for what i'm going thru
i wish i could open up to find you somewhere deep inside my soul

the second one is

down.
music is from nightmare on wax - passions

i wrote a million songs for you
i spoke a billion poems for you
my fingers roamed the places
that your love complicated
i stroked a zillion locs for you
i cloaked a gillion clocks for you
i'm sitting hungry waiting
for your participation
cuz my love is down...

Inspiration

2009-11-30T16:14:00.001-05:00

"...And if I

if I ever let love go

because the hatred and the whisperings

become a phantom dictate I o-

bey in lieu of impulse and realities

(the blossoming flamingos of my

wild mimosa trees)

then let love freeze me

out."

- junejordan

I Must Become A Menace to My Enemies

she who knows nina

2009-11-30T16:03:00.002-05:00

to
feel the lips
of she
who sings
nina
would be soul
clenching
to hold the
hand of she
who ignores
rules at the musuem
to feel the edges
of
kahlos painting
just to say she
knows her
would create and explosion
to puddle the eyes
of she who
reads
nikki/nikky
would puddy my heart
but now i
hold hand
of she who
knows none
of my favorites
and thats
the way
it always is.

cake batter bowls

2009-11-30T16:03:00.001-05:00

if love was enough
we'd be real good
like cake batter bowls
and index fingers
red zingers
with creamy insides
milky ways
and juicy thighs
but love don't pay the rent
just make it higher
passion don't watch the kids
just ignites the fire
and i feel the blaze
we have burned on down
Cuz this love just ain't enough
but its still good
real good.

on revolution.

2009-11-20T13:02:00.001-05:00

on revolution.

i ain't no revolutionary.
just this sunday my hands
were too cold
& i littered
on some west philly block
where gentrification comes as certain
as white privilege

i stay where the johnsons used to live

i ain't no revolutionary.
just the other day
while on the bus
i sat
when grandmother came on
bags clenched to her hanging bosom
i looked the other way
cuz my feet were tired.
from a light days work.
and shamed my bigmama

i ain't no revolutionary.
just last week
i still had love
despite that sunday
when she grabbed me from behind
and bent my soul in foreign places
strangled my neck
with familiar traces
of 'but baby i love you'

i ain't no revolutionary
ever single day
i cloak myself
with the masters tool
- disassemble myself
to shine his feet
do a jig to get a penny
& leave my baby with the crocodile dile dile.

I ain't no revolutionary
fist been stuck deep in my jeans
fight been stifled to a distant scream
i am Soulless &
empty at the seam.
left my dreams to wilt
with the willows
i weep
in a jungle
with a banana around my hips.

Beautiful Blossom : Aziza

2009-11-20T12:22:00.000-05:00

the growling
swelling negligence
of yearning.
the absence of will.
the powerlessness
of purchase
salivation
at advertisements
for goods
- commercialized supply
& unmet demand.
opening of doors
to vast emptiness
cooled insipid air
ketchup stains
greasy rings
& unfilled jars.
sauce and spices
without objective
blossoming vacancies
bottomless pit
crescendo of longing
flourishing appetence
swollen with starvation
she is familiar with hunger.

old bones

2009-11-19T10:58:00.000-05:00

dissect
my heart
and you'll
find not
one trace of
your imperalist touch
my swinging beat
will slow
not from
the cupping of the pendulum
by your pale hands
but by Amma
who returns me
back to the sea
and maybe
lift me to the sky
or
to meet me
with the atlantic
i choose to sink to the bottom
where no one has
looked for bones
cept to place in some
glass box
where blue eyes
can gaze, souless
for admission
of $21.75.

belly laugh

2009-11-13T13:30:00.000-05:00

the air was reminiscent of the belly laughs
that used to drape the stale air full
- a hiccuped digestion
reactionary to your one woman show.
we sit now
crowded in an empty room
quiet
as a cluster of memories
stretch the width of us
pull the length of us
i'm cold as linoleum
dew settles deeply above my lips
fog cradles your fingers
we slowly walk the plank
- we dived
- we sank
- we drowned
we belly laughed
bubbles.

2009-11-10T12:55:00.000-05:00

I cannot write
& it is killing me harshly.

this is not a love scene

2009-10-27T15:22:00.000-04:00

it's 7.10 a.m.
sunlight splatters against my brand new world
i've made up my mind about work today.
i ain't going in.
i lay on my side
hands blocking
the evading daylight
watching her get dressed
- laugh to myself at the slit in her boxers
what are you laughing at, she says
i point
like girls who still say 'nah nah nah nah nah'
like girls who fall victim to big brothers antics
and
we're little girls without the training bras again
we're little girls running through sprinklers
we're little girls who sing,
'Tweet, tweet, tweet
to the rythm beat'
i can see your pussy through that slit
whats the point? i say
she gathers at the cloth
to momentarily cover
what i love to suck for hours
whatever,
she smiles
whatever,
she chuckles.

khakis, white shirt, red jacket
and
tims
all on.

but this is not a love scene.

the fear of honeysuckles, i suckled.

2009-07-06T15:41:00.001-04:00

the fear of honeysuckles, i suckled.
z.bediako

for all that i have left are paper thin dreams
laying flatly on pale pillows
don’t mistake them for water colors
just cause they dissipate at the touch
diluted and bright;
fragrant of moon beams
that gently swayed
through the curtain of blinds
like the slow motion of swing sets
stuck, speckled in a grainy old film
fallen back in time
yes,
i still remember the sweetness of abundance
a cornucopia of oblivion
while white envelopes piled up
on the kitchen table
out of tune piano top
crooked mailbox;
stiff and brown from summers' sweat
while cocoa butter legs
ran the distance
of a country block
covered in honey suckles shrubs
what precision it took
to pull the stamen
through the bloom
fearing that poison resided at the tip,
a globular body of nectar
but i tasted life anyway

.rapture.

2009-06-28T12:07:00.000-04:00

i am a peaceful river.
she holds a rod;
dips the hook in to my blue
until flesh
is captured.
she ignites the wind
increases its speed
and catches
me in the rapture.

i am a violent monsoon.
swollen and fierce.
ejecting from the peek
of dry land
i've taken over busy streets
pause not at the babies chuckle
or any other innocence.
i was a peaceful river.

.bleeding.

2009-05-08T10:50:00.001-04:00

.untitled.
she paints life inside walls white
we yearn for a glimpse of her color
she bleeds gray and spits purple haze
smoke seeps clean from one breast to another
they hang sweet. like the drupe of the cherry
i make keep of this soft
she bleeds red to resurrect my canvas
way before my feet touched these philly streets
sorrow be her instrument
she strums that brush over empty places
serenading the vacant
with life depictions
and this ain't fiction, no
but some novel be her life
you think you know pain
well she knows strife
"Daddy" got stripes
yearned for the younger version (virgin)
of his lawful wife.
Fucked in silence
Now her art carries echoes
Of her plight

untitled. 4.6.09

2009-04-09T11:20:00.000-04:00

i haven't written a poem for her.
that says a lot.
maybe i'm speechless.
(ha. i'm sure thats not it.)
there isn't much to say.
about a she who says
' bi-racial babies are the best babies '
to which i could only reply with a deep sigh
while simultaneously understanding her position
as black settles so deeply in her face
you'd think Sun was her mother and father
she who hates the the summer time
you'd think she was the daughter of Midnight
she who still dwells in the halls of it's birthplace
second grade
where 'tootsie rolls for fingers '
and 'your mama so black jokes'
really ain't funny
when you're almost purple.
she with skin so smooth it looks like
dark chocolate was poured on evenly against her face
i haven't written a poem for her.
but if i did, i'd have to speak of her embrace
and how she breathes me in/
nose buried in the crease of my neck
smelling the black coconut that resides there
i'd have to write on the ghosts that sit atop her
shoulder.
with light boo's.
my daddy said that pork makes you go crazy.
i often wonder if the insanity of my day is brought on by those bacon sandwiches i've started to eat in the morning.
maybe tomorrow i'll just order egg and cheese on wheat and forget the meat.

Spaces

2009-02-25T09:20:00.000-05:00

Spaces.
z.bediako

There are so many spaces.
Like
the nights sky
is between each of us
Even when she's lying there with her
afro puff
puff puff
like smoke stacks
that my rasta daddy creates
in back rooms and front rooms
with brothers and sisters who love Jah
like Jesus was only for holidays
but wait...
I was talking about Spaces
Like
night was stretching her arms
the length of war-time between us
when she's right in front of me
with her brown,
brown skin.
Like India wrote it
Just for .she.,
The shade of russet hardwood
damp still from wax
That ain't dried yet
before four feet found
a thousand a month to hard to pass up
And who cares if I don't know
what her sisters name is
But wait.
I was talking about spaces.
Thick inside of us
like size 16 thighs
in 14's
wanting to be 12's
not knowing that Saartjie (SART-KAY)
was... well, beautiful and
- France doesn't own your parts -
That spread wide like diseases in Hai-ti
'cause clean water runs too freely
from my pipes as if sewers
got thirst and need to survive
but wait
I was talking about Spaces.
well and alive like
the great divide our continuous problem
which Audre equated
to the theft of what was native:
that tenderness which has become foreign
for far too many of us.
But wait...
I am talking about spaces
reading in-between lines
and refusing the margin
cause hooks
wrote books
on our behalf
made yams white & black
black & white to set us free
I am talking about
Spaces.

untitled

2009-01-28T11:43:00.000-05:00

open up a book.
sometime.
use words
and articulate
that piece
of peace
that we take
for granted.
sing
freedom songs.
sometimes.
dont matter
if you can't hold a note
you got the
power
to uplift
the weeping
with those vocal chords.
the suffering dont
care about 5 part harmony
just harmony
soft &
round
like baby faces
untainted
with their brothers blood
a casualty,
to people who got nothing to lose
cuz them souls
holds nothing but echos.

Call me Indigo

2009-01-26T10:10:00.000-05:00

i am the blues
the lower pitch of major chords
i am the blues.
bigma's sigh at
holes in shoes.
i am the blues
-b.b.'s handkerchief
-ma raineys stool.
i am the blue
Billie's mood
just
call me indigo
i am blue.

inspired by the works of .jilly.h.

Eggplant

2009-01-23T13:19:00.000-05:00

spring.08
z.bediako

her smile
as white
as
privilege
will never be forgotten
but remembered
in day and night dreams
that keep me
high as the
sunflowers
that grew in
my mothers garden
that was really
just small green space
under the fire escape.
scary
brown faces
with yellow wings
that grew tall
like
her height
i love it when she
stands over me
black
as
eggplant
beautiful
as black

Chattanooga.

2009-01-23T13:16:00.000-05:00

.chattanooga.
dec.10
z.bediako

we were in the same place once
chartreuse blades of grass slid their way through
my toes
as quilt patterns etched their way in my skin
you traced
my lips with your tongue
with hungry precision
like they were the side of fingers
holding on to a melting ice cream cone.
we were together in the same place once
television noise, our background
to drown out the squeaks of your bed
in a house shared
with folk who ain't know
that lady fingers can curve
to reach where love comes down
you told me
you drowned that night
and i resuscitated you
mouth to mouth
in your inner thighs
that tasted a little like
ivory soap

A short poem for the ones who think we are free.

2009-01-22T12:11:00.001-05:00

A short poem for the ones who think we are free.
z.bediako

you are so easily pleased.
and for that
my belly
is pregnant with stones
in due time
i shall open my legs
wide
against the world
and birth
my agitation.

Individual Shit

2009-01-21T11:49:00.000-05:00

'Individual Shit'
z.bediako

to be forthright,
this verse was written for my contentment.
the seal of every sentence
to please my appetite
your eyes; hungry and thin
merely gallop over the cobblestone
of what is placed before you
like a meandering path.
pauses reside only at the crevice of the comma
endings merely exist at the sting of a period
that engenders the fall of the tear
the curve of the lip
will you detect the movements?
or are the
rhythms simply missed
as you're in search of rhyme.
i’m inclined to never place
assonance in a line
again.

thanks mindy for the title inspiration

.childhood memories.

2009-01-16T22:14:00.000-05:00

my mother and father split before i hit .eleven. i don't have many memories of them together. fewer memories of them happy. don't have many childhood memories. period. every now and then something random will trigger a flash of the past. my mind takes a mental picture of it and i like to write it out, as soon enough it will dissolve back into dust. last night while watching brothers&sisters (pure boredom) a scene triggered a childhood memory.

age five or six. the years when long car rides would hypnotize me and my sisters into daydreams that would tumble effortlessly into sleep. a light sleeper, my eyes would whip open at every red light as my father attempt to break would cause his old red chevy to screech the same sound that later made me wish parents didn't pull up in the front of elementary schools. i remember the winding georgia roads. the weaving of cars in and out of lanes. like my bigmas crochet hook dipping through thread. i always knew when we were almost home. i felt the familiarity of the three right turns it took to get us through the rushing traffic, the train tracks we galloped over bringing us closer to sylvan road, and finally, that left turn that would end us at 1444. though awake, my eyes remain closed as an impending smile waited impatiently on the inside. felt four eyes peer at me from the front seats. any sign of life would have engendered the rise in my mothers sweet voice, " we're home." my twin sister authentically overpowered by the darkness snored this deep windy sound that softened my fathers heart a bit. my oldest sister, afi, knew my trick and resented the bumps growing on her chest
" she ain't sleep! "
of which my mother would respond with a quick "Shhh!!!"
the sound of success.
my dad would get out of his side of the chevy and i would feel a cold. or warm breeze hit my coat or bare arm. daddy would unbuckle my seat belt and take me in his arms. i allowed my body to hang limp and helpless. when my head finally rested over his broad shoulders i would finally release the huge smile sneaking out the cracks of my brown cheeks. if i was lucky my older sister would meet my eyes and i would eject my pink tongue.
the final slam of the door lead us through the gate. up four steps and through the porch where my favorite play dough station sat with bits of puddy stuck at the bottom of plastic ice cream cones. finally my shoes would be removed and i would feel the warmth of my twins body as we were both tucked in, my mama made her exit with our favorite story "orange tree" . then i'd roll over to my twin sister and pinch her nose close until she gasped awake.

z.bediako

she who stays at a distance

2009-01-09T09:12:00.000-05:00

3 cookies fresh from the oven
to distract the bitterness of this distance
the persistenceof winding roads
the plethoras of area codes
between us
countryand city
gritty power plants
to corn field catches
sunflower patches
ding
the chocolate chunks get stuck
to everything
to the craters in my teeth
and a struggle ensues
my tongue boxes the sharpness
and gets scraped
i lose
completely defeated
but i won't give up until my belly is all full
and semi-sweetness sinks to the bottom.

.coping with the situation.

2009-01-01T10:50:00.000-05:00

salut-

i have tried writing this email a million times. maybe this one will actually make it in to your inbox. maybe not... i guess we you will see. i will see. my previous attempts were unsuccessful because i wasn't (and to some degree.. i am still not) really sure how i feel about the current situation. which, can be best described as the abrupt change of pronouns. the hasty return of my first person singular "I" and the obliteration of the first person plural, "We" or its objective form, "Us". That "Us" that was deeply gray but felt so fucking sunny & organic... as if it sprouted from the soil that god him/her/it self patted down with his/her/its bare hands. that "Us" that rocked me to sleep every night for what science calls 3 weeks but what supernaturally felt like so much longer.

how do i feel?
i am many parts

when my folks ask me how i feel (as i now pick up the phone on their first attempt at reaching me because i am not on the other line with you)I conjure up the same sentence my mothers ex- husband would use when asked how he was adjusting to his recent emigration from the gambia to memphis
'i am coping with the situation'
he would say it in a monotone voice, thick with a west african accent. this gave his statement such genuineness. it resulted in an immediate understanding. this worked to his advantage. one could hear his brokennesses through his sound. follow-up questions were unnecessary. my georgia accent does not carry the same ability. there is no immediate understanding. so... i am probed more. how. why? when?
As if I even know.
I am coping with the situation.

i am an assortment of colors. blue. black. bruised. i have faded. my royal purple is now reminiscent of a dull lavender. i am an assortment of shapes with no rigid definition. if someone tried to outline me i'd resemble a master/piece. a drunken Vitruvian Man. many parts. many pieces. but not as proportional. a work of p/arts.

a part of me.... simply put, feels sad. Sad that a good thing. sweet thing. beautiful thing. intense thing. new thing. came to an end. a hault. screeeeeech!! leaving me feeling like a circus of onomatopoeias.crash. clash. bang. boom. thumpthumpthump. boohoo. .

a part of me feels angry. frustrated. regretful. wasted.
i feel like i was ejected from that ride at the carnival (you know the ride that no one knows the name of but is everyones favorite) that spins you around and around and around. its exciting. its a thrill. you get caught up. you smile. you laugh. you lose yourself in the moment. and then it gets so intense that all you can do is just lay your head still as a sort of sickness threatens. lovesick. you want to cry/explode. you scream. and then it is over. time to get off.

i never asked to get off.
i am dizzy

i am confused. i have questions to ask but i don't desire them to be answered. only because i'm sure the reply wouldn't come like harmony to my ears.

have you moved on? do you think of me? have i been disposed of yet? do you think of me? do you miss me? are you with her? do you think of me? was this a game to you? why? how? was this easy for you? did you ever really care? do you think of me?

a part of me knows the answer to all of these questions. you answered them the first day we talked. i know that i am no different than the ones who came before. this ending has resembled the others. i think i was really confident that i could work a magic that would keep you close... even in physical/emotional distance. a part of me feels like i changed you. the whole of me knows that i haven't.

a part of me tries to enhance the memory of your flaws to weaken the sting. i spread the off- the- wall shit you said to me (like strawberry jam over honey wheat )in my mind. but your sweetness overpowers the funk. the times you called me beautiful. gave me rhythms between my thighs. made me laugh. oh god the laughter. i miss that most. a simple joy. the air misses it too.

everything seems so silent now.
z.

written sometime last year.
it wasn't even that big of a deal
i can be so dramatic.

Dr. Smith

2008-12-28T11:22:00.000-05:00

I don't remember much about my childhood. My therapist said that this could be due to some type of traumatic situation that happened way back when. I couldn't give him any stories. So he dug and dug until I shook my head at Grandma who picked at my fat arms.
Treasure Chest.
Yes, that is it. He said.
Strike Gold.
But it ain't "Angry Grandma"
I just wanted him to feel better about that crooked degree hanging on the mother of pearl walls.
I could smell the fresh paint at each session.
See the baby blue cracking through.
Birth....
I lost his number when
Free session were over.
718-
718- something.....

untitled

2008-12-28T11:18:00.000-05:00

i've seen
black cherries
drip their juice
for too long
now.
i'm ready to
recover their souls
cuz
marshmallows
don't
absorb
their offerings
marshmallows
are merely
confections

Jersey

2008-12-28T11:16:00.000-05:00

written 10/08

she kept asking me, whats your type?
"my type?"
over and over again. what is it?
"what?"
your type!
what kind of
hair, skin, body,
shape, smell, swag, style, smile
way, walk, voice,
laugh, lips, legs
face, back, size

gender role of choice
fem, butch, stud
dom, andro, hyper
boi, agressive

do you like
lemons or melons?
apples or pears?
coke glasses or cans

i kept silent
shrugged

but i wanted to say
my type
is what you see
when you turn on the light
in the bathroom
and watch your
reflection
as you brush your teeth

catch yourself in the
hall mirror
when you go get towels
from linen closet

when you check
your blind spot
in your reviews
and catch a glimpse
of yourself

Sati

2008-12-12T18:53:00.001-05:00

Sati

your perception of me
should go beyond sight
but, look at these organs
dripping in my hands
that i've pulled out
and offered
as a sacrifice.
gone unconsumed
i wait for residue
my hands, the altar
at the death of this
i will set myself to flames
as if Rahda was my first name.

Very Well

2008-12-10T09:10:00.000-05:00

Musica,
tonight i will open your womb
& curl up inside of you
soothe me with your lullaby
Mama, you know woe & pangs,
very well
you know
the sharpness that lingers
like twittering thumbs
and how sadness tastes real salty on your lips; the curve of melancholy
stroke me with Viola
she knows tenderness
rock me with loose Vibrato
she knows passion
very well

A short poem for the Gays

2008-12-10T08:54:00.000-05:00

one thing Gay ain't,
is
the new Black.
and J.Crew
can't un do
the handkerchief
around my bigmama's head.
And Malia
& Sasha --
I hope to see braids
in your hair again
I won't hope
for a row of beads
(that'll be asking too much)
And gays, stop planting your seeds
where some flowers have yet to blossom.
Get your own garden
to cultivate.

I shouldn't, but I feel a need to explain this a little bit. Oh, and by "this" I mean my distance. The "your" instead of "our". The cover of The Advocate for this month reads: Gay is the new Black, The last great civil rights struggle. WTF? This isn't the first time that I've heard this. My college professor pulled me in her office one day to ask me why Black kids in her Soc 101 class were so homophobic when " they should understand the struggle for civil rights. It's the same, isn't it?" I had to give her a resounding "No" on that one, told her to read Black and Gay in America by Keith Boykin and exited out her office before she asked if she could touch my hair, or what ash was (this happened to my sister in college!). Although I am a part of the Queer community I often feel alienated because of instances like this, when Gay Activist feel it necessary to equate the civil rights movement to the movement for gay rights. I will admit that one thing I cannot stand is appropriators, or Stefani's as I like to call them. Black folks are not the Harajuku Girls of the LGBTQ community. Yes, I understand and feel the urgency of civil rights for the QLGBTQ community. At the proposition eight rally in Philadelphia one lady put it best: I am too old for this shit! Equal Rights Now!
But infering that the Blacks have reached the promise land is absurd! Can't we be more creative?

And if you haven't seen Flag Wars Please do.

Exiting the Belly

2008-08-25T09:22:00.000-04:00

exiting the belly
z. bediako

i escaped right into a prison
i was the raise of the base
just call me the logarithm
encased above my mothers thighs
i was the truth
in the womb
now i am a
open lie

just
maybe i was freer in two parts
pre-conception

shoveled inside dark ovaries
swimming in the sac

maybe it was better
that
he didnt have the orgasm
to set me free
his impotence
an impetus
to a sweeter
reality

though i'd know no taste
for i'd have no face
for a mouth
to be placed

maybe i was better
as a daydream
in my mothers mind
fragmented
family trees
awaiting branches
to exit her belly

barely considering me”

Love was....

2008-08-12T12:36:00.000-04:00

love is a kiss
and i'll never taste the sweet dew
of a salivating
cave
wide enough for
two tongues
to tango
love is a dance
i am a rhythm-less mass
watching the trees sway
with green eyes
love is colors
i am a canvas, white
void of paint
pastels
pencils
and pens
love was the word
not the reality
and i was an oblivious mind
forgetting that
the tingles
fade
for those who seek highs.

Persistence

2008-05-03T13:40:00.001-04:00

i am erecting
this afterlife
before mine
ends
and in my mind
i will
not die
but live on
like a constant aroma
or a never ending echo
nothing
will fade
or replace
the stay
with absence

Life Death Dates (1984-

2008-05-03T13:39:00.000-04:00

my exit,
be it crash
or clash
be it in peace
or as pleading
be my entrace
to freedom

but

it's that collision
the never - ending rhythm
that repeats its beat

of the antithesis
my life/death dates
in parenthesis

and thou's majesties
revisions
(or a unreviewed draft)

that keeps these visions
afloat
and in constant scope

that make me
stay behind cubicle walls
a prison
with no roof top

watching the doorknob
instead of
turning the doorknob

keeping feet together
instead of
one front
one back

watching the exit
knowing that the next
is desk
accumlating dust
like books
on shelf

little casualities

2008-05-03T13:38:00.002-04:00

how can i see rainbows
through this cloud of grey smoke
reeking of
fresh ash
dry bones
and sizzled hair
once grown
from the heads of
4 little black girls
4 little black girls
4 little black girls
from alabama
who liked to lick the
sweet potato batter
from big mamas spoon
little brown girls
little brown girls
of bagdad
who laid their heads in the grass
and watched their brothers pass orange kites
across the humid sky
to tease and tickle the clouds
kinky haired boys
of southern sudan
who fetched big buckets of brown water
from the nile for big sister
big sister
thick lipped girls
of haiti
sewing sequences
muticular sequences
on
car-ni-val costumes.
to please oshune.
chestnut face boys
of gaza
building tents
on dry land
next to debri from
bombed schools
bombed schools
little sun kissed kissed boys
of Aboriginal Australia
watching uncle play
the didgeridoo
yearning for the day
they could play, too
little ebony girls
of kampala, uganda
sleeping soundlessly
on stacked beds
before the fire roared
swallowing them whole
am i suppose to see rainbows
rainbows?
through this cloud of grey smoke?

six stringed morning songs

2008-05-03T13:38:00.001-04:00

“the sun tips her hat
through our window blinds
and i wake up against her rays

i wake up against your face
i wake up to hear you play:

six stringed morning songs.

competing, as three little birds
pitch on my doorstep

i want to give you the golden star
but..... you don't sound as sweet (ha ha its true)

but practice makes perfect
so… lets do deepness
every night
correct the weakness
of your sweep-picking technique
and let sticky secretions
inspire songs
for the twilight

and you’ll take off the sheets
when the yellow peaks
and practice sweetness
at the edge of sunlight

until you get it right

and earn the golden star
instead of settling for consolation prizes
sugary compromises

sweet and low

i despise the fakeness
of blue and pink packets
that precipitates stomach aches

lets love real
as the sugar cane
cultivated from brazil

the sun tips her hat
through our window blinds
and i wake up against her rays

i wake up against your face
i wake up to hear you play:

six stringed morning songs.

competing, as three little birds
pitch on my doorstep

i give you the golden star
cuz, you sound so sweet
i rot my teeth
at your melody

I can’t floss out
this heavenly
build up”

the color purple

2008-05-03T13:37:00.001-04:00

repression
gets old
-then-
she brings me out

hands that cover my mouth
are placed behind
my back

my teeth
are now
free against the wind

she tells me where to find
my button

like shug
to celie

and she adds a little sugar to my bowl
as we make

the kinda purple love that alice created
before spielberg faded it
into lavender

on retrospecting a future break-up

2008-05-03T13:36:00.000-04:00

" it is better to have loved, than to have no loved at all ?"
those were the words spoken from the throat of she who released me
claimed her nest was excessively full and desired the empty -ness (nest)
no syndrome acquired... but assemblage required when she released me

and " some days i feel like a motherless " chick
she broke the sticks with her lips when she spewed out indifference
my significance, now insignificant

buttermilk

2008-05-03T13:35:00.001-04:00

i awake with her name clung to me
soft and fresh
like a morning biscuit stuck to the roof of my mouth
and i wonder
did she started rising in my sleep
like yeast
lifting under 400 degrees
i wonder
about the baking, ardent core of my dreams.
i wonder
on the doughy way in which she clings to me.
but all of it remains unsolved mysteries.
and i must face the reality
of my emotional batch
thick as buttermilk
and i get mad at myself
for the 4 little letters that want to magnetize against each other despite their various location in the english alphabet.

Unpolitical Political Politics

2008-05-03T13:33:00.000-04:00

lets restore
this picture
in a funky blue tint
and wear
pseudo-political keffiyahs 'round
our necks
and
over-sized glasses
so we can watch
this wretched earth
pass
in sepia hues
and shade our confusion
behind
plastic frames
bought from some trendy
spot
on a south street
or a peach-tree road
in a downtown
somewhere in a big city
or a small town
where its cool
to wear rainbows
on blazing sunny days
as if the rain
just ended
when the storm
is brewing
like over-priced
starbucks:
weak
coffee beans
that taste like heaven
to people who got fives
to give away
(like lincoln
was an old friend)
for blackness
poured in
paper cups
that hold more taste

The Day I Go Blind

2008-01-14T14:06:00.001-05:00

i rarely write short stories. but check me out:
the day i go blind
z.bediako

one of these days i am going to wake up and distinguish only the darkness. none of the figures i am used to seeing daily will appear in my sight. they will amalgamate in to a charcoal black, entwined in a sullen blue, dyed around me like a mountainous landscape. i will stumble. and i will fall as i have forgotten about the small objects that were strayed around the room the night before. i didn't foresee this. as a child does when frightened in a dream: i will instinctively call out her name. and like a mother entangled in stiff linen, she will come. i will smell her before she arrives. perfumed in coffee beans submerged in wondrous almond oil. i will cry when the aroma is confirmed by her desperate presence. she will listen. and i will release the song of the unseeing. a deep elongated moan that lies at the core of the soul inside those who can’t recognize the brilliancy of yellow suns , the radiant gradient of the scarlet sunset. the luminous serenity of amethyst or the ferocity of fuchsia.

i will only feel the wind change as she dances her palms in front of my eyes in crisscross motions. and for once, my panic will be in order. i will fervently crave the refuge of overreaction and hypochondria. only to wallow in the gloom of perdition. we will try not to discuss our future, if she will stay or find someone more capable. and for good reason. she is so young. tender as fresh blossoms. white soft delicate petals. she however, has brown skin. once decorated with bruises. i, like golden butter, eased the pain from the tender burns. through our conversations we created dusty trails and poignant pathways. we impressed footprints in the broken cement of our grayed hearts .

we will sit silent and still. still and calm. we will hear conception at our pregnant pause. she will then crush the quiet with the roaring promise to be my sight. and then, in an instant, my vision will return. my smell will weaken. i will only detect a faint trace of roasted nuts. i will look up and see the pain mounted on her face - like a silvered bass placed proudly on a trophy wall. immediately sorry i'd called her name, i will comment on her hair. how the fall of her jet black locs have changed. she will turn suddenly, as if the dead had arisen.unable to conjure verbal expression she’ll strike me. gently. out of love and relief. and maybe even in modest revenge.

and then we will laugh. for hours, days, we will laugh. hysterically. foolishly. our eyes closed and our mouths wide. our hearts full and souls content. tears will bring cerulean droplets that will gather on our russet hardwood creating transparent puddles that will turn in to lakes then in to rivers meeting at an indigo sea. we will make a bridge with our limbs and let multi-hued sea life leap over our oceanic bodies. disfigured, our skin will wrinkle like infant noses. our vision will impair from the synthetic salted sea. we will go blind. and none of it will matter because we would see each other, through each other, and marvel at the colorful sight of love.

a poem for her

2007-12-21T01:51:00.000-05:00

i believe we poets sometimes know when a piece of poetry will make sense to only us. i can't necessarily speak for other poets - but i'll try for a moment. in these instances where our pieces are as personal as this one is to me, we hope that maybe our readers will take a piece away that reflects their experience in life.

i fell for stories
tall tales of love lost
dipped my feet in luke warm
with your persuasion

you convinced me that i
was the winner of the tittle

and despite deconstruction
our eruption entitled me to the golden crown

i ate grapes without peels
only lasted for seconds cuz
your colors started to fade
i'm still searching for whats real

seeing past that golden
blended in your face

never tasted honey
like i imagined

hugged your tongue
twisted
tightly
tangled
neatly, nestled
in your folds

the thought of you filled pages
gray pounds white
filling up the empty
i'm empty

in day dreams
i see the other
chocolate dropped
from the cacao tree
blended so well into your background

why must you always have to have a background?

well, anyway - she's no good for you
having her cake
and fucking mine too
craving the rainbow
but black and white is sufficient

i'm talking to walls now
you never could listen
- z. bediako

terrestrial

2007-12-21T01:48:00.003-05:00

even in the state of gone
you linger strong
in the bones of my memory
the marrow of my retrospect
only slightly do i recollect
days of discord
we were always harmonic
like guitar cords or,
just maybe i've just forgotten
the pain you could have caused
i could have erased the gloom
that maybe loomed or hovered
like a space shuttle
cuz all i remember now
is the abduction of my whole soul
the eruption that took flight
deep in the night
as i tried hard to keep still
holding tight to my headboard, paranoid
that you had become an extra terrestrial
and belonged to something higher
and who was i to rob the sky?
who was i to keep you here?
away from the stars that steadily
burn out and disappear
where the planets conceived you
the asteroid dance beneath you
i just want to breath you
inhale the gold of your halo
leave this blue and float the heavenly black
cuz, here on earth they just hold you down
they call it gravity but actually
its our burdens that keep us grounded
and i don't want to be bounded
so give me me free
i've been yearning for your company
awaiting that journey on your spaceship
i'm equipped with my heart in a knapsack
freshly packed and ready to be unwrapped
are you down with that?
cuz i'm down with crashing on Jupiter's wings
painting my lips with Mar's red
and in our celestial bed
we watch comets blaze by quick
as if life depended on the arrival of them
and if we start to get homesick, baby
we can cross the stratosphere
and they will fear us as we have taken on a new shape
and are alien to all that they do know
and all that they can see
with out the presence of doubting realities
of when we start to get pulled down by earth
lets make more love until it hurts
and return to the mouth of the universe

untitled

2007-12-21T01:29:00.000-05:00

browsing k-mart
on one of my dim days
she comes/magnificently
searching through aisles
for something...
maybe candles
or smell goods
or envelopes
perhaps kettle corn
or paper clips
or raspberry jam
and for seconds
we made love
like the batter
[except one ingredient left out:reality]
but better
[just sweet enough]
-z.bediako

i could love her

2007-12-21T01:17:00.000-05:00

i could love her
seems like
in some other life we did that
my retrospect doesn't transcend
into past lives
so, its purely speculation
that a love was created
in another time frame
on another time plane
but, i could love her
seems like, in some other life we succeeded
i tasted cherry pits ripe with fury
i licked my fingers savored the nectar
listened to the hummingbird sing
and somewhere in the ecstasy
there was her and there was me
i will love her feels like
at someone time we did that
laid still as the sun kissed our backs
making rhythms of the wooden
sinking deep within its cracks
and our souls were relaxed
heart no longer gapped
the warmth of my hollow
made me immune to the draft
fighting infections
we became each others protection
no bully could stop our flamboyant obsession
i could lover her
feels like in some other ways
we made that

z.bediako

a sunshine pill

2007-12-21T01:13:00.000-05:00

i figure
i'm no good
so, i just stare
at your beauty
craving your flash
to temporarily blind me
to depict me
as everything
i'm not
and everything
i am
-z.bediako

bare boned

2007-12-20T16:45:00.000-05:00

we knew each other too well.
there were no mysteries in our laughs.
diverted eyes when we spoke
nor were there
empty and fleshless skeletons in our closets.
you had my bones in the inside of a box.
buried deeply next to yours.

but the eclipe changed everything
after the sun had passed the moon
you left me to pick up the dollar bills
sticking to the wood of the dresser
-z.bediako

Autumn

2007-12-20T16:40:00.002-05:00

We place pictures of ourselves as still images in their minds
Always wanting them to belive we are never changing
We like them to understand our flaws as symbols of human nature
Not of signs of what we are lacking
And the reasons why sometimes
green leaves change to brown
and some days brown leaves keep a sticky purple
that rubs in the creases of the palette
We never try to deny our colors.
The assorted blends of our darks and brights
Allowing dreams to give way to our destinies
We see ourselves as holograms
Here, but not really here
A part of the branches that spread over sunrises
Stay strong in the blueness of the blackened nights
Even as we die, we change
Into the stiff brown
the crispness of our bodies lay helplessly
on the cement
Waiting for the time when one step
will break us into little pieces
The winds will blow our segments
in different directions
this autumn.
-z.bediako

Abstraction

2007-12-20T16:40:00.001-05:00

Life’s not black and white
Life’s triple blends
Spots and Stripes
Disorganized surroundings
Some speak
Some are still
Yet and still we make simple
Figure 8
We apply our minds
To one application
And we are denied reality
Reality not green or red
Like Christmas days
easy.
Colors, Sounds, Smells
Already figured out
Laying gracefully on a
a decor napkin
Waiting to be tasted
touched
We change our ways
When times get tough
Predictability is
Easy when
nothing
ever
changes
Days stay further
back into the week
Pen constantly
out of ink
Blank pages stay
on top of each other
anticipating agitation
But we're still
shouting innuendos
Making life seem
pink & blue
As we rebirth
Stage changes, planets moving
Slowly. Yet not available to see
We sit still. & easy
We have our super
TV
Simulacra dances
fills us up for the day
We say grace
Our bitty hands
Pointing tips in the air
Hoping our
Irony doesn’t
kill us
but
bless us
Life isn’t
black or white
it’s colorless
with neon brights
smeared over it
like highlights
But there’s no
important points existing
just existing matters.
z.bediako

father's little fetus

2007-12-20T16:24:00.000-05:00

mary cant fuck
stuck on the stool
of her brooklyn porch
watching the girls go by
mary cant touch
tending to the seeds
of her fathers garden
watching the boys she hides
mary cant suck
the wind was taken
her skin clutches onto her bones
she stares at the ceiling
as she floats away
mary got luck
she found her way out
before her baby came
smiling while dying
feeling the weight of his shame
- z.bediako

love sways

2007-12-20T16:12:00.001-05:00

We gave love a name last night
We did a kind of dance
where our arms pushed out
and our souls fell in
and our toes curled in
our emotions gave motion
to the bed in which we lie
my senses were heightened
and my fingers touched the sky
& I brought you a piece of a cloud
to stuff inside of your pillows
- z.bediako

for kaylee

2007-12-20T16:10:00.002-05:00

she dreamed in black and white
with pieces of colors speckled through
in a weightless form she floated
smelling of ripe sweet honey dew
melons
drop from places where they grow
her hands stroked the smooth skin
she throws them / breaks on cement
she tastes the flesh that lives within

- z.bediako

Shapes

2007-12-20T16:10:00.001-05:00

i see my shape
in the space of the night
holding on to city lights
and singing -
' all that jazz '
with lovers by my side
stripes blended
in the street
stockings clinching
onto knees
we pollute the breeze
with our filthy
fuck air
with our 'disease'
crystal clear
are sunken hollows
i make room
for
pear shaped
muscles
pumping life
inside my hustle
getting by
on velvet swallows
coming down
are silky pieces
i take in
what you release
i pause for breath
absorb the glitter
on my tongue i taste
the bitter
- z.bediako

who she wishes she was

2007-12-20T15:58:00.000-05:00

she speaks in riddles
i decipher her hunger
curled up in the buds of her
humid tongue
among the
fleshy pink soft grains
hidden in the midnight dew
no rain
but
under her roof it sits
protected by white gates
she spits
knowledge
like it's nasty
out
it goes
and here comes the sun.

In a Dream: Reduction of Illumination

2007-12-20T15:52:00.000-05:00

I wait to watch her move the moon
She takes it out of sight
Eclipsed away the energy
Leaving the stale of
Pure pitch blackness
But not to frighten
Her intent is for delight
As a matter of a fraction
She subtracted the blue
Canceled out the hue
The common denominator- their brightness
She created the existence
of a real night
Not plagued by the persistence
of crescent light
Prevents the aggravation
Of natural illumination
We can hide in open fields now
Leave
the trees be to clutch the empty
Open branches fall back
And swing
The downward stems
Let water slide
And the earth is our caliginous playground
Blinded by the lack of light
We produce sparks
To irradiate our surroundings
And get us through this
cardinal darkness
we become each others glow
Twenty tip-toes topping
Blades of grass
We're suspended in the breeze
As aerial creatures
with nocturnal features
Living our our lives
As we're sleeping. - z. bediako

untitled

2007-12-20T15:50:00.001-05:00

i love you on dark days
when the sun refuses to shine
we make home
intertwined
in the bellies of our sublime state
we make walls shake
as we come
tumbling down
never
waking up our minds
or
making up our minds
or
shaking up our
mind-blowing confections
cant soften this erection
the
atten - HUT
of our connections
the
at EASE
damn, of our affections
I can still taste your complexion
Yummy
A blend of Africa’s ejection
golden honey, dark chocolate, creamy caramel
made me feel like i was sitting in the brass section
Like I was the notes
Afloat in the verse
Of the
Mingus
Monk
Miles
Marsalis collections
you were blowing me
around and un-abound
i swear it was unmitigated perfection
i can hear your moans
when your gone
you know that’s sound reflection
at least I’m guessing
but let me slow myself down
because I’m coming to an intersection

I love you on stormy nights
When the clouds refuse to calm down
We make ‘delicious’
Intertwined
In the bellies of the earth quake
We make hot cakes
And do the dance
Of hot potatoes
Up and down we go
Blended right
Like ripe tomatoes
Is this infatuation?
Cuz I feel the vibration
Of my heart aching
A day without your presence
Is akin to the
'Allllll shit '
Of a bridge breaking
And I fall in
Land in the moisture
And taste the result of your
Body shaking
Hear the exult
Of your senses awakening
Making calls out to the stars
In dark
Like you’re a wolf
Mounting a rock
In the forest
Wild.
But I am happy to free
What you’ve been repressing
But now I’m stumbling at the
Intersection
With just one question
Do I need to change my direction?
Or change to whom
I’m directing this complex
Confession?
Cuz my soul
Is free of protection
Cuz your love done broke
The rubber
And I aint trynna consume
Infection.
Deep.

- z. bediako

this may not read well, its actually spoken word.

back...and forth

2007-12-20T15:37:00.000-05:00

life rocks me
back and forth
like a new widow
i clutch the memories of my past
back and forth
like swings sets
yet it never suspends
with the absence of the breeze
back and forth
like wicker rocking chairs
and it weaves right through me
back and forth
like the pacer
i too await for the answers
back and forth
like the double dutchers
i had no warm up
before i was pushed on in.
back and forth
like longitudinal waves
i crash against the shore

- z.bediako

the bottom of beauty

2007-12-20T15:27:00.000-05:00

if beauty were skin deep
i’d be downy rose petals
the day of bloom
or
maybe the rise of sunken eyes
on lazy sunday afternoons
yes
i’d be the sprint
of the white tailed doe
the first flight
of the baby blue bird
if
beauty were skin deep
i'd be seashells
washed upon the sand
yes
i'd be the devine plan
examine lifes lessons
with clovers in my hands
if beauty were skin deep
i'd come after rainbows
i'd be the wind
then
i'd ease the calamity
with my breeze
if beauty were skin deep
i'd be the sound of tip toeing
the motion of water flowing
if beauty were skin deep
i'd be real deep
the bottom.

z.bediako