Heartbreak

 

Heartbreak. The first woman to break my heart was a friend in college. I thought we would be besties but they distanced themselves from me when I started questioning my sexuality.  I had never been rejected by someone who I thought knew me and understood me so well. Never imagined they would stop talking to me just because I wasn’t as straight as I thought i was or as straight as we were taught to be. I miss them hope they’re well. Friends can break your heart as badly as lovers this is the lesson she taught me. 

Heat Rises

Fire flames and heat rise in the pit of my stomach when I see you

when I think about How you stabbed me with your words

How you sliced me with your phrases and crucified me with a look of indignation

They don’t know but I do

They can’t see but I can

secrets lies and old wounds oh how they burn

They molt through the lining of my belly , melt down my pride and expose my shame

Now the high temperatures of my anger are eroding my joy

and stripping me of my happiness

Leaving me naked and bare

I have nothing left to give

As a flaming ball of anger is how I live

Don’t come to close i just might explode

My frustrations will spill over onto you and corrupt your peace

Contort it and transform your contentment into resentment

Because my satisfaction has been spent

I can feel heat rising as you walk my way

and the fire of hurt as you cross my path

There is a flame that fans every time you smile

and a tear that falls when I think about how I said goodbye

The fire was started by the hurt you vocalized

and the wrongs you say I perpetrated?

and though it is at my hands that this inferno is orchestrated

It is at the sight of you that it is elated.

 -dirtyartboi 2013

Image

Advertisements

writing about writing

Sometimes I write about art and writing to get the creative juices flowing. Often I’m penning a pep talk to myself  and before I know it, my rambling is an ok piece on its on.

Art

Why because I am alive

Art is always happening

Songs inspired by pain

Painting with a love muse

you keep fighting  cause there’s a fight

And the sidelines are boring and irresponsible…

If they exist at all

We’re all in this together

Whether we like it or not

 

You must write

Everyday you soak in life

write it out on a page

Let the paper swallow your sorry

Let the ink splatter your joy across the page

Who cares if they get it

Who knows who will ever read it

Its for my sanity

It must be said

Holding it all in is slow gentle death

Like stomach cancer

I want to die but must live

I will write our way to freedom

 

When you’re an artist art doesn’t necessarily fall out of you

Easier than any other person

When you’re an artist

Art is a song you can’t turn off

It cries out to you begging pleading demanding

To be sung through you

Its up to you to decide to listen

To practice

to pursue

to risk

listen

To remain an open vessel through which it manifests

Again and again

Whether your listening or not the music is always playing

Poetry is in the air

Lyrics are always flowing

dive in

dirtyartboi -2013

lovetowrite

We Are Still The Vanguard

My primary source of television is via Hulu and Netflix these days but I am finding more and more hidden gems on Youtube as well. I have been watching alot of black web series.  There are so many independent films chopped into webisodes about black life in the UK that are giving me what I always hoped I get from BET back in the day. Many of the series are about love, relationships, and finding your place as a 20-30 something in the world. It’s such a relief to see black people making media about black people that’s not a documentary or sob story about extreme violence and poverty. Our lives are complex and we bleed and love like everyone else. Yes racism plays a role in our lives but its not all consuming and its important to reflect whom we are despite of it as well as because of it. At the end of the day television and movies are about entertainment. As a lover of drama and humor myself I have been quite pleased with the mixture of both in many of the shows.  Venus vs MarsWest 10 ldnBrothers With No Game, and Spin are the top of watch list these days. My main criticism is the rancid herteronormativty and absence of the lGBT experience in general.  (I will blog about my favorite LGBT web series another time)

brothernogame

Watching the stories of my brothers and sisters across the pond with British accents walking, dressing, and expressing like Africans here in America always does something to me. Seeing those beautiful brown faces streaming through my computer stirs up pride in my culture, reminding me that I am not alone and capable of so much more. It reminds me how much the world looks to Americans especially African Americans for definitions of cool. It also reminds me that I am apart of a vibrant and diverse global community of Africans. It makes me proud to be counted amongst today’s hip hop loving 20 and 30 something Africans stumbling around trying to find companionship and financial stability.

Seeing others performing their version of our definitions of cool reminded me of a phrase the Black Panther party used a lot. “ We are the Vanguard “.  Mind you the Black Panthers used this phrase in the context of political protest. To paraphrase in their view as Africans suffering at the hands of the world’s super power it was our role to be on the edge of resistance.  I believe this to still be true today. When the world is looking to hip-hop, athletics, and media for the cues of cool, we have an opportunity to push the political envelope as well. They are watching us and we have to set the agenda, frame the conversation and tell our stories in ways the mainstream can’t.  We don’t have to be post black to find ourselves. We just have to be ourselves and remember the world is watching.

We Are Still The Vanguard

We the black survivors

Those who the world looks to for language, fashion, music, athletics, and the politics of protest

just a few hundred years ago

we were locked in chains

now we race to buy and brag over stones and chains

soaked in the blood of our distant relatives

the bulk of our chains, our invisible birth right, internally hidden…

Embedded in the opaque systems that impact our lives

Self hate….The meaning in the unspoken messages driving our lives

Lies perpetuated by mass media, for mass appeal, so others can amass wealth

If I were just smarter, lighter, skinnier, or richer

The myths about who we are and what we can’t do

used to justify 100,000s in prisons, crumbling schools, and neglected neighborhoods

yet we are the vanguard

Not the talented tenth or credits to our race

Not the willingly ignorant tokens chosen for scholarships, political office or corporate diversity credit

Us the masses of black survivors

The awake ones who haven’t given into the lies

Who hustle every day

working 80hrs for 20hrs of pay

In uniforms, dresses, suits, and sagging jeans

In offices, stores, restaurants, schools and on street corners

Code switching and copy and paste smiling for crappy pay at crappy jobs

With eyes wide open we engage this world

We are the vanguard

Those who the world looks to

For inspiration and exploitation

Someone else may rewrap market and profit

But we birth it

No matter how thick the chains

we never stop creating

Every generation breathing new hope

We are the vanguard

Those who the world is always watching

where did you learn to rap like that

to rock like that, cock your hat, and tap your feet like that

shit before 1960 who gave high fives to you

before we blasted through your television on sports fields and music videos

who were you giving daps to?

They rapping and singing the blues from Tokyo to Palestine

From Mumbai to Port to Prince

Those with the darkest skin still treated the worse

Yet we are the vanguard

Always questioned and accused

You constantly assume the worse of me

Yet I am your muse?

Your extreme love and hate for me

A web of bi polar schizophrenic chaos

Where’s my medal for still being black conscious and in my right mind ?

Where’s my brothers’ medal for surviving the tortuous dungeons of the PIC

Where’s my sisters’ medal for surviving the pressures to starve, cut, fry, dye and buy her way away from her natural beauty?

Where’s’ my fathers’ award for creating such a loving being,

In a place filled with such violence towards him,

For loving me in spite of his own self hate?

Where’s my mothers’ award for

Shielding me from this world’s attacks

Long enough for me to incubate my own path?

Where’s her award for loving me when I was ignorant of self and asleep to this world’s lies?

Where’s my family’s props for simply surviving ?

How much is the prize for adapting and surviving

in every corner of this planet and continuously birthing the babies of the global vanguard?

While you figure it out I’m a be over here surviving

and beating a new path for the next generation to thrive and profit through.

Finally

Ok I’m going to try this blog thing again for the 4th or 5th time. I’m knocking on 30 and hopefully I’m ready to be consistant. This is me whispering secrets into the world wide web, weighting in on things politically, rambling , ranting, and raging my frustrations. More importantly this will be the place where I grow as a writer and protest with my virtual voice.

Today I’ll share this poem I wrote early this morning after watching DMX and Iyanla Vanzant. It stirred up a lot of emotion in me. Caught me by surprise to see a father and son in such pain because of addiction and infidelity. I know life long addicts like DMX who battle with substances for decades upon decades. I have been shaped by the wisdom gleaned from their stories of survival and triumph as well as sadden by the impact of their mistakes and relapses.  Much love and compassion for those in the struggle to love the addicts in their lives. Much gratitude to those  brave enough to share their lives as they struggle for sobriety.  May we learn how to be slow to judge and quick to forgive.

Powerlessness

Its bubbling up and I don’t know what to do.

Tears

Usually tears from my eyes

are like blood from an apple

today they are welling up freely like the wind in chi city

Rolling over my body threatening to push me off my path

Bear down head first and lean into the pain

Just walk into the wind

Keep moving and you’ll be alright

Today it doesn’t feel that way

The well is over flowing

winds blowing and blowing

pushes me back, knocking me down

drowning in my own tears

can’t breath

Only tears

Mouth wide open I gurgle more tears

Where does such sadness come from

I ache for others

Ache for the pains that surrounds me

For the suffering I’ve survived and the suffering I know others still wade in

I ache for the pain I know my children will face no matter how may

protests I stage or poems I write.

Powerlessness

this feeling

this knowing that there are things bigger than me

That I can’t control

situations I’ve created for myself

that I can’t get out of alone

its bigger than me

these things, people, systems

That eat at peace

Constrain my joy

Powerlessness

it wells up in me sometimes

Silently invoking tears

even on the happiest of days.

-dirtartboi

bucket-of-tears