recycled soul

Come, let me recycle your soul. I will rinse it clean, sanitize it, then send it back to Earth. The sanitization process often erases all traces of memories. For some, however, a few latent memories of time spent here are retained, fully realized through spirit-work The un-sanitized memories are like leftover germs, each one carrying pieces of a past you can barely recall. They are a flash of light in a dark tunnel. There is something there, but you cannot make out the whole. You stretch yourself into the past, feeling in the dark, hoping to unearth what you’ve forgotten. It rarely comes, at least not fully. Shards of memory fall. I gather up the pieces for the recycling, rinsing them of a world that doesn’t need to be remembered. If anything remains, let it be the joy, beauty and laughter of a life well lived, infecting the new soul like an incurable virus.

memories in a can

she was dying
not from disease
it was much more
invasive than that
there is no vaccine for pain
no vaccine for the insecurity
he bred inside her
turning her into a genetic modification
of her former self
her soul is now broken ribs
from steel-toe boots
no vaccine for immortal memories
she wished would expire
memories as long as those
remembered by ancient gods
who watch as their creations die
centuries old rubble
fade to dust with each sunset
her memories are canned goods
created for disasters
made to last until the can is opened
unnaturally preserved life oozing
from the cut metal
she was dying by the inch
dying
from the fist that blackened
her eye five years ago
just after he proposed to her
dying
from the lover who told her
her tits were too small
dying
from memories of the child
who slipped from her womb
still
unmoved by life’s promises
dying
from the canned love
preserved in salt and bitterness
there is no vaccine for betrayal
no vaccine to heal the cut wrists
she sees the sun rise tomorrow
but life is only memories in a can
preserved for the dying soul

 

under the baobab tree

she waited for herself at twilight
under the baobab tree

black skirt raised above knees
red and gold painted bare feet on haunted ground

spirit rising through ancient soil
seeking lost self and awaiting life

the agape dance
gyrating for the coming moon

gyrating for her lost self
smelling sea water on moonbeams

night skirt tugged high
copper skin against cloaking darkness

she is her own lover
she made love

to herself
under the baobab tree

yesterday’s words

there is a forgotten life inside this aging skin
fragmented memories of an ancient epoch

ancestral reinventions laced in lost stories
our flesh matters less than the words we leave behind

the lyrics endure; a griot’s invocation
the deluge of stories return to our waiting tongue

words become anthropomorphic things
with breath and soul; with dance and song

inhaling and exhaling for us
onto paper, onto stone, inside clouds that form ideas

and rain; i am re-fleshing the dusty bones of forgotten worlds
with words; forgotten words

remembered sound inside this aging skin
needing words; needing lost yesterdays

the witch of the aegean sea

I want to tell you a story about a short stout woman who lived on the island of Lemnos in the Aegean Sea. She fished barefoot next to her shadow just before the sun found her copper face and presented her to the world. By the culture’s warped standards, she was not pretty. But she was a clever moonlight witch with a cauldron for each day of the week, including a special Sunday cauldron meant specifically to raise something dead. She knew that at the rate the world was going, she’d spend many Sundays searching for the left tooth of a hippopotamus and the right hind leg of a field mouse, the primary ingredients needed to raise the dead. Then there was the distilled water that could not be purchased in plastic gallon bottles from a supermarket shelf. Those were tainted. They’d been sitting too long and around far too many fearful souls who believed in too many gods. The energy was all wrong; so she, Alda, had to distill the water herself, a process that took several days and a large beacon handblown by a sad naked virgin with butterfly tattoos covering most of her body. Alda had watched the process many times before and sometimes joined the virgin, her clothes tossed over chairs and tables in solidarity.

(to be continued)

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marcus garvey’s house atop a hill

I had not been home to Jamaica in over a decade. In August 2015 I took a trip, and while there, visited Marcus Garvey’s house, which still stands atop a small hill, with the same ginep tree that was there when he was a child. I ate from that ginep tree and imagined Garvey climbing high to reach the sweetest ones.

Photo: Taken by me in front of Garvey’s house

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the living

There are days like today when the living ain’t easy. 
I sit in the back of the store—breakroom slash 
stockroom—waiting for things I cannot name. 

Boxes stacked to the ceiling containing gadgets to 
keep us entertained. Fluorescent lights hum. 
The clock ticks away each second of my life for 

minimum wage. I won’t be dishonest, a dollar 
more than minimum. I am still a slave without 
chains. The mental and spiritual shackles are 

hard and cold, holding me firm to an invisible 
wall deep inside invisible catacombs. There is 
no cask here. I am bricked in by this culture. 

It is wild and oppressive and no longer free. I want to 
melt coins, burn Franklins and Washingtons to ash, 
mix them to create magic wands to cast out demons 

and cast spells to bind the future of capitalism; forever.

The bulbs continue to buzz, the microwave hums, 
warming food for the one invading my space. She is 

tall and pencil thin, hair dyed Smurf-blue, voice like 
Rosie Perez. She doesn’t know that I want to save her 
from this place, this back room, cold and lonely, not fit 

for life. We are here because the melting and burning 
has not yet begun. Instead of a war cry to usher in the 
next revolution, she waits for a beep, so her radiated 

meal can soothe her. She eats away her minimum wage, 
unconcerned with the reality that she may live and die in 
a stockroom, somewhere on this continent, making less 

than the patriarchy that owns her life and lives well off 
her lack. Her Smurf-blue hair will have turned gray and 
white, her back low and knees pained; but she can’t 

stop because cat food is expensive these days and 
she needs to eat.

The light dims and flickers. A toilet 
flushes in the distance. Footsteps trace their way 

back to the front to greet an uneventful life, bloodied 
with microwave dinners, worn shoes, unpaid light 
bills and a life-dance without music.

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in elysium

Your whispers reach me across time. They find me standing on the edge of awakening. My dreams leave, then your dreams ask to enter the space of love that eases our pain. We go together, warriors of love, into the fields of Elysium. And there we plant ourselves in eternity, seeded and ready to incarnate once again, once again, once again, here. But the place we must wait is distant, taking us across vast barren land. We make love on the dry soil and our cries of ecstasy fertilize what was once dead. We water the land with our love-waters. Green things grow as our orgasms grow. We green the Earth with every drop of us. And life grows, inside and out. Elysium waits for us, again, somewhere off in the distance. It waits for everything we are; and the offering we brought forth from our love.

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feeling jolly, maybe

It snowed last night. This morning the sky was clear and the snow bright. While I do feel a sense of jolly when I look at the blanket of white, I continue to wish that snow weren’t so cold. I know, to achieve such a feat would require a change in the structure of everything in order for snow to not melt at 90 degrees. But if we put enough spiritual energy into it, who knows what magic can happen. Until then, I dream.

Writing Prompt: Jolly

i built a story

I built a story that was tall and wide, stretching across miles of land like the Great Wall of China. I did not use brick or stone or plastic or metal or wood. I used the purple haze of stardust, sprinkled on sea foam paper that chewed my words into wide-eyed children, nutrient rich and ready for the mind. The paper sang to me, calling me through time, reminding me that it too has a story to tell that even the stones would bend to hear.

I re-flesh the ancestors with naked language that sometimes wants to forget itself; but remembering is the only panacea. I re-flesh memories, piecing together what was forgotten, clothing forests with leaves and branches and ancient trunks, and the dead things that cover the ground to re-life the soil with nearly forgotten ichor. The words grow up through it all, breathing through time to reincarnate, if even for a moment, what fibs tried to erase. I picked the fragrant words that bloomed, and built a story, tall and wide, stretching across miles of existence like a galaxy, big and aged gray, ancient and ready to tell tall tales about its life and what it had seen.

ilt

hate speech vs my mighty voice

Mighty Voices Rise

I don’t give two damns about “hate speech” against me, a brown woman. Not two. I have a mighty voice and know how to defend myself against words meant to cut my soul. What I care a lot about is whether someone attempts to do me physical harm, cut my skin. That is my biggest concern. Not the small words of small people with small minds. My words are too mighty to be concerned with the infantile ramblings of those who have nothing better to do with their lives than discuss people.

I wish to be left alone and allowed the right to get away from any “hate speech” I don’t want to hear.  Don’t allow anyone to follow me around for the sole purpose of speaking to me any kind of way (they can say what they want without forcing it on me) and don’t allow anyone to touch me, harass me or bully me. My physical person is more important to me than a bunch of words (venom) coming out of an idiots mouth.

Further, I want those who wish to say hateful things to express themselves freely, please, so I know exactly who to stay away from. If those who hate me are silenced, then they could do me even greater harm in the dark because I won’t know who is doing things to me. Could be denying me a job, spitting in my food, giving me wrong medicine, whatever. I need to know who to stay far away from, or who to report if they attempt to deny me access to something I have the right to access.

Nope, don’t ban a thing for me. Keep them away from me. That is all. I know how to use my mighty voice against those who bring small words pushed from the depths of their small souls.

mortal words

i’ve decided that i don’t want to write, not with my hands anyway.

i want to think words onto paper and screens and leaves and stones and skies. i want words to fall onto the sand and clay soil, carved into ice and cave walls.

i want words to appear on my skin, spinning stories of a life lived and yet to be.

i don’t want pen and ink. no, that is not enough.

i want the words to manifest, conjured from my soul and eager to find themselves atop anything that is not immortal. so they can one day fade, fade, fade, then join the ancestors.

i want my words to live for a million years then without warning meld into the akashic records that house everything we have ever known and ever will. yes, even the words must leave here.

mortal words seeking immortality.

so don’t ask me to write with my hands. it is not enough. it will never be enough.

 

i am the stream…

i am the stream…

of consciousness.

it is 2:38pm, monday, the In The Beginning day of the week

august 14. twenty seventeen, whatever that means

it is the day when i want to forget the days and seconds and step into infinity,

the un-time

when will my day come. this is not a question. not anymore. when will i be the well versed and well fed writer who need only spill ink onto the page and the letters and words figure skate to my thoughts, shaving ice into paragraphs

i stream across the un-pulp, the bits and bytes that give life back to the trees, so that i can write guilt free. still, i am guilty. the words have not yet transformed nations, creating a quasi peace, something i could leave to my children’s children

my words don’t bleed for them, not yet. my words don’t bleed, so they will never need to bleed, and sweat and cry for what could have been

i bleed for the horizon i have yet to reach, for the words that need to be found to conjure beauty and caste a spell upon our heart so it will grow eyes and wings, to see each other in the mirror, to fly into infinity

i seek the un-time, the edge of tomorrow

there is where we will find a wasteland of mondays, their bones almost dust

leaving only the un-time, on a mound made for our children to cast prayers to the un-gods

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