Cycling

I haven’t posted a poem up in awhile, but the last few months have been difficult as I’ve transitioned to a new place to live. Much better and happier now. Here’s a poem I wrote almost a year ago, and threw in a few edits today. I cycle all the time; it’s my main mode of transportation, and it’s an amazing one, so here’s one to my days on the road!

The thrill of speed

My agility, my virility

My bike and I

As cars rush by

So close, I can feel the heat

Metals beasts of death

But the thrill as

My body, my core

Flares with galore

A fiery blaze as I maneuver through

Metal beasts of death

Words

I’ve had a busy month, no time to post. But I’m back again with a poem about the power of words. Words will not be enough but no one thing will ever be. It’s all connected: our struggles, our liberation, and our future.

What are words?

In the poetics of

Theory?

How do I fight

with the only weapon I know.

Words strung across

Crossbows.

Fires brim at the

Fingertips

turns into arrows

to light a path

towards heavy explosions

shake my body

souls tremble

feels like liberation spilling

through my veins

through words.

What are words?

In the theory of

Poetics?

rent is due

it’s the first of the month. it’s day when we’ve gotta fucking pay to have a roof and rooms. it’s also the day i get paid… so here’s a poem in dedication of being anti-money:

Mistakes are made,

of which i blame

those dead presidents

found on those floating pieces

of dead paper.

Money is a drug.

Money is a poison.

Money is an addiction.

Dead presidents to trap you

find you, to blame you for your mistakes.

And then don’t listen to your screams.

my redefinition of love

here’s one i wrote this month about love. i have very different definitions of things than most people. sometimes i feel like trying to communicate with people is impossible because i’d have to explain all my differences before we could even begin. i believe in love but not love defined through the system of patriarchy and white supremacy.

Love is not romance.

Love is not flowers, or dinners

or dates.

Romance is constructed through layers of

patriarchy mixed with western notions

of [preferably white] companionship.

Love is wanting to change the world

not through ideas of peace, but through strength and steel.

Love is reaching inside yourself

to peel away layers which are not yours,

but were given to you

soaked in hundreds of years of oppressive behaviors.

Love is never candies or chocolate

or holding hands in a movie theater.

Love is always the search for revolution;

the search for armed resistance.

Love is when we will be able to stand together

against forces much bigger than us

but we will win, not just through love

but because we will have realized through love

what we need to win.

Love will never be romantic.

Love will always be us together against the state.

in war

hi y’all it’s been a few days.. here’s one i wrote back in July but I thought it was relevant today as the war at standing rock rages on. this is for all the folx who are up there.. y’all are winning.

the war in Amerikkka

unfolds

unfurls

undulates

the war in Amerikkka

is here

is ongoing

is violent

the war in Amerikkka

waged by armed police officers

dressed in riot gear

supported by white people and the white washed

the war in Amerikkka

will be won by those in the streets, fists high

no justice, no peace

anywhere until liberation

to the ones before

art in words or pictures or whatever from chosen is so important to our well-being and our growth as persyns in a fucked up oppressive world. often the stories that are told are stories by white, straight cis men. those are not stories that have inspired me. rather it is the stories of those who have gone through shit that have pushed me to want to express myself. I begin this poetry blog with the memories of all my writer ancestors: audre lorde, Octavia Butler, Gloria Anzaldua and all the others; never forgetting the countless who never made their work public.

I’ll be trying to post a poem a day… will start of with a couple lines from akasha hill

“whether we speak or not,

the machine will crush us to bits

and we will also

be afraid”