[an erasure. click HERE to read full prose poem]
Sanguine Heart
Part 1
I am not a pink
girl. Red is my color
no need to dilute,
add white to temper down
my intensity.
If we friends,
you already know:
I’m passion incarnate—
red is the color of love
& I got nothin but love
for ya (baby ;)
Part 2
I temper down my color
with color:
red + orange = red orange
red orange + yellow =
outrageous orange* = me
on fire, energy bursting manic
you can’t help but feel it
ignite the red in you—
enkindles light/in your heart
smile spark, laughter soothes
any fires burning blue in you—
whatever’s got ya flushed
got ya mad in yr heart,
got that choler boiling hot—
ain’t no thang, if
you got red in you, too.
If you got blood in your veins,
ya got hope. Tap that
sanguine air—
breathe blue sky in, feel
your belly expand,
spark light in ya heart,
smile on yr face. Hug
your favorite Libra & laugh;
feel that sanguine smile, that
sanguine hope, that confidence
seeded deep in your core:
that’s the red in you—the love.
Feel it warm in your breast;
let it glow—
a beacon, a guidepost
to spark smiles, give
the only gift that matters.
Writer's Math
Things only have the worth you assign them; therefore:
You = a thing = the worth you assign to You.
You = a life = a collection of days = a thing = the worth You assign to each day.
#embraceandengageagency
Real Talk for a Night & Always an Evolution
...I know I'm not even close to a *ping* on your radar, but when I come across you on FB/IG, my radar sounds and I can't help but think of you. I think about seeing you at X and the obligatory hello you gave with the not-so-subtle vibe that smelled of no-I'm-not-interested--not-even-in-conversation. And then I think of the day and the night of YZ's failure of a surprise—and how my anxiety grew roots all day and blossomed once all of the oxygen imploded—and how not you or any other person who helped plan the party was there for me while I spiraled in and out of hyperventilated sobs, closed behind my bedroom door while my home was full of people—and how not only did none of you check in on me let alone help, but instead talked shit behind my back while standing huddled around my kitchen sink. And how you especially hardcore failed me, when you should've been the one person who cared enough to place your palm on my back. Yes, I realize there was more, but not really. It was all my anxiety. And while you write and perform your knowledge of PTSD on stages and preach about the compassion needed to overcome, you offer/ed me none. But instead look past me with an insulting indifference when our paths align for a night. And whether social media thrusts you in my face or we meet IRL, it hurts despite time passing, cuz you still sexy as hell and I'm still full of heart and always an evolution.
Today, On Understanding Thanks
Today, I may possibly feel more grateful than I have ever felt, for I am grateful for myself—content in spending the day with Frankie, free of anxiety and triggers of need. For this watershed moment, I am thankful for the progress my mother and I continue to make, speaking honestly and hearing each other with only love in our hearts; for the friends and colleagues who have supported me and known since our beginnings that I wished for nothing but joy and honesty. And today, I wonder if this is what self-love feels like—and if it is, I am so grateful to have found it.
Carrying the The Fountainhead Curse
When I read Ayn Rand's Fountainhead, I knew nothing of her politics and read the novel free from preconceived notions and the knee-jerk recoil of a liberal consciousness. Instead, I waded through hundreds of pages, and my affinity for Howard Roark grew resolute as I witnessed the protagonist lead readers through a social commentary aligned close to my heart. A visionary, Roark's unique perspectives, creativity, and conviction placed him alone at the forefront of a counterculture, opposing the dominant behaviors of his contemporaries and their predilection for popular demands, subservient to herd mentality.
Often in society, people claim that to be unique is to be special and rare, exceptional and extraordinary—something or someone to be exalted and praised. However, far more often, the mass subconscious aligns with the negative connotations of being truly unique and result in one being perceived as anomalous and strange, unimaginable—and as such, alone. Even the Oxford English Dictionary classifies this reality, and first and foremost defines unique to mean "of which there is only one; single, sole, solitary." To be solitary is to be alone, unaccompanied—the harsh reality of those who are considered sui generis. The unenlightened masses, unable to comprehend the possibilities proposed by visionaries and fearful of risk, deject that which is unique and cling to the security of that which is commonplace—forcing those who are truly special and rare, exceptional and extraordinary to defend their convictions and fight for what is handed out freely among pop culture artists.
Today, perhaps seven or eight years since I first read The Fountainhead, I find myself again feeling aligned with Roark's crusade as I wonder how I might possibly convince literary agents and publishers to consider my manuscript worthy of their risk. It's well-known that publishing is a conservative arena, a commercial endeavor with very little guarantee of ROI (return on investment). How can I convince anyone to publish my book, Mantra'matic, when the odds (and rules and restrictions) are stacked against me?
Notably, the most essential requirement for submitting one's manuscript is the condition that the writer send the first five pages of the document within the body of a query email; it is noted in the instructions that if one sends an attachment, the query will be disregarded. This stipulation alone excludes Mantra'matic from the submission pool as it is uniquely like none other even in its formatting, which eludes any possibility of conforming to the rules with its puzzle-pieced preface and substantial redactions that black-out most of chapter one.
When I try writing a query that communicates the brilliance of Mantra'matic, which my professors, colleagues, and friends have deemed "amazing," "successfully complex," "transcendent," and "like nothing [they've] ever read," I find myself writing in circles trying to explain the complexity that is so eloquently laid out in the quick-read, which is the book itself.
One professor, who closely advised me in the early writing of the book, once said in awe that it was "going to be an important piece of literature [to the cannon]." Feeling the poignancy of life experience that Mantra'matic offers coupled with its original system of writing, I agree. And again and again this ideation is reiterated from both readers and audiences who have heard selected excerpts. Yet, like Roark, the genius of my creation may never be realized—forever in search of an extraordinary publisher willing to take a risk on a book equally extraordinary.
A Quincy Night in Chi
When I pour a second glass,
white and crisp
like this August night—
one floor below
bumps Biggie
through a line-up of new
millennium hiphop,
proclaimed in a high-pitch,
fem-male voice— "This soong
brings me back
to sophomore year
in high school, when..."
I was fucking one of the Quincy B
boys—they'd always play
this track Friday n Saturday nights
when our college house
rocked the smell of Tangueray
and Bud Light.
But tonight,
I hit my bowl
sip like a swig
and write.