Friday, December 6, 2013

Hex Code for Lonesome

Color me lonesome in pale and bold reds
   then dip me in chocolate and take me to bed
I miss you when dreaming - breathing - awake
And I pine for you - melancholy -  all thru the day 
I am covetous & greedy craving your presence
   like  glow- tones pulsing violetly iridescent 
I miss you even though I tried to think you away
 Still the shade of longing is indescribably vague

Thursday, December 5, 2013


passion -

a precious, caressed agony erotically seduced 
evocative & revelatory -- manifesting radical truth 
once possessed, the spirit transcends infatuation:

the Beloved has been mastered: 
mercy is sacred when suffering is sated

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Trophy Scarves, Tacky Art: Some Questions About Nate Hill's Performance Art

"‘I don’t want to tell people what to do with their lives,’ Hill said of the racial issue to which he is trying to drawing attention. ‘I just hope they would examine their motives, that’s all.’
Hill himself is the child of a black father and white mother, making the issues associated with Trophy Scarves feel ‘close to home,’ he says.
He added that ‘I am not really black, I’m half black but I don’t really identify as black.’
For that reason, Hill says that he feels like he is role playing when working on the Trophy Scarves series.
‘For me its role playing, I’m playing the role of a black man,’ he told us.
According to Hill, the experience is also one of role playing for his white female subjects too.
‘I just assume she is playing the role of a white woman,’ he said of the models’ work, also adding ‘What difference does it make about me or how I feel about the models, the more important thing is the issue in the public now about black men who might find white woman to be a status symbol.’Nate Hill's Trophy Scarves

So so so many problems with this. Nate Hill has got problems. His problems are making me hyperventilate. I don't know where to begin.  Mr Hill doesn't identify as black, which is quite his right and personal freedom  -- in spite of what his mirror can quite clearly reveal to him. And, I might add that if  that is still not convincing I would invite him to interact with some cops who might be disagree with his contention quite violently. Still if his primary motive is to challenge a real trend of  black men  acquiring white girlfriends in order to indicate their higher social status then isn't he rather taking the position from a white man's point of view, a white supremacist point of view, to  say that in fact that race mixing is  offensive objectification, that this use and abuse is a violation of white womanhood?

 Hill is merely reinforcing the entire pedestal concept it seems. Protect and keep white womanhood safe and pure from predators. Further the gross objectification of the imagery only demonstrates that womanhood itself is worth little without the man to whom she is attached. The racial overtones are very much complicated  by his own claim to the identity of whiteness. He has taken himself outside the racial argument into the arena of white supremacy where he rebukes, judges, lays down the law and of course mocks the very idea of interracial couples

 Hill, himself, is the product of an interracial marriage between a black father and white mother. One envisions all manner of  Greek tragedy and Oedipal complexes factoring into the formation of his identity and this performance art's underlying thesis.  He says that he doesn't "want to tell people what to do with their lives" but cautions the audience to examine their motivations for entering these relationships. Is this a coded message particularly aimed at white women who allow themselves to be objectified by the status seeking black men? Hill's "art project"   provokes inevitably compelling questions about the artist. 

I can't help but wonder if he is expressing ambivalence about his own black father: is he suggesting that his own white mother has been used and objectified by a black man? Why is it his need to  send out this sardonic and cynical message? It's not as if a certain kind of black man doesn't tend to view a white female companion as a status symbol -- OJ Simpson comes to mind.

 But whether Hill sees himself as black or not the fact of the matter is that American culture's adherence to the One Drop Rule will identify him as black. His art project is fraught with so many troubling issues that it's almost impossible to get to the heart of what the flying fuck is going on here? Who died and made this dude the Darth Vader of the Anti Race Mixing Defense League.

 Is he worried that the white women who date, marry, and fuck black men can't think for themselves? Is he concerned that black men with insecurity issues are threatening to the purity of white womanhood?

If black women were seen as status symbols to white men would he be quite so aggressive in expressing his artistic race theories? I think not but I thank god that we black women don't have to worry about him coming to our defense. He's got enough problems going on just trying to respect himself and his own racial identity. 

Sunday, November 24, 2013

Aphorism No. One


is hard on the body
and hard on the soul
and hard on the feet
that journey the road

If you can make a little love
and feel a little peace
along the way
you've fulfilled half the purpose
and reason for the stay

Artist Mang Bo

Thanksgiving for GOOD GirlFrienship!! PS - Away with the Crazy Makers and Yay for TRUTHFUL Powerful Reinforcement based in Love and Mutual Commitment to Betterment

One thing I REALLY like about being a late 30-something rather than a cutesy but confused 20something is that around 30 and certainly by 35 you simply have to start cleaning out your friendship closet. Well that is if you want a productive and satisfying friendship life --so AWAY go all the stressor types and the party friends with drama 24/7; the fake girls; the friends who always seem to make you doubt yourself and your actions, who always are able to sow those seeds of discontent within you when you otherwise are indeed quite content....

Oh the list abounds with the so called friends and crazy makers that you have to part with in the post-35 era. And its scary at first!! You think about what people are saying behind your back, is this the right thing....and that's how you know you did EXACTLY the right thing. If you're spending all your time worrying about petty shit you need a Friendship MakeOver and somebody is going to GoodWill at the end!!

But it's about what you GAIN from the process...and that means women friends who can tell you the truth without making you feel small or silly. Who reassure you of your self worth when you are being your own worst critic. Who are there for laughs and hugs just because but also full of support in the hard times. Whom you don't have to have a REASON to drop a line and say "hey girl this is happening to me, isnt' it great" or "Hey girl this is happening aint that some shit!" It's worth so much peace of mind and comfort in spirit to have other women friends who are actively working to put themselves in the right space mentally, physically, spiritually, creatively etc. just as you are doing as well

You may SEEM to lose a lot in the Friendship Charity Give -Away but you gain so much more. It's the Thanksgiving season and I'm so grateful for those friends whose "real talk" is something I cherish rather than secretly hiding offense.It's wonderful to have friends whose opinions you respect even should you disagree. It's that ability to respect even in disagreement, in recognizing that what may be right for another is/isn't right for you that indicates you've correctly placed yourself on a maturity level about your friendship. You know what to put in in order to receive good vibes back. Don't forget to say a prayer o thanks for TRUE Good Girlfriends this week!! 

Good conversation, good friendship, good laughs, good hugs, good love and real healthy and honest advise coming from the place of love and meant to keep you on the road to self realization is what it's about.

Viva good girlfriends!! <3 

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

The Vestals of the Shrine to Psychalgia

I am hungry for pain; it is what I eat
nourishes the brain, sharpens the mind
transforms bloats tricks the passage of time

The opium eaters seek to lessen the ache
while the cutters create wounds to celebrate the pain
each performing holy ritual to make it more true

facing the vague remembrance of a time before
of a place where it un-ends too soon

Could you...? Would you...?
trade it, unchoose it, intensify it
in lieu of the suffering
that enlightens the soul journey
forward, back-again, through it

Pain requires a sanctuary to worship inside
to exalt the deity, raise it on high
to meditate on silent screams heard
only by the vestals tending the shrine

if the pain were to stop what would we do?
expire from heartache?
pass away into mist? 

now the holy offices are complete
see the vestals bleed into myth

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Grief Stricken, In Tears, Drunk on the Floor

You laid waste to yourself                                          
Artist Florian Nicolle
now you're full arsed bare
but you were afraid, so afraid
he'd leave you
get bored
if you didn't give it up
you were fearful he wouldn't care

and he did leave
now you're heart-less:
you gave that away
you're soul-less:
you sold that to make him stay
and you're mind-less:
because you lost that long ago
now you're home-less as well
because you can't live on your own
it's too scary to live
inside yourself
you're too wary of the silence
and the thoughts that
live there tempting self violence

but darling can't you at least
find a way to live without a man
for a day or a week
then you may cease the experiment
but if you just tried
you really would find that
there are a thousand loves more permanent

he's called a "user"
his job is to take what is yours
and that's why you're now
grief stricken
in tears
on the floor

Yes dear heart. You can live without him.

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Keep Pushin

by Judas Berra
I came into this world
on some shit that didn't last
got to know who your friends be
or you will end fast ~
if you don't understand
I can't explain
no better than that
you got to roll with them punches baby~
always hit hard
always hit back

Keep pushin baby
You got to keep pushin

Monday, November 4, 2013

Of Incense, Herb and Smoky New York Nostalgia: A Memoir of the Great Drought of 1998

Okay I probably should have more shame than to post about how enjoyable the newest Hot Pockets commercial is with Snoop Lion  and Bow Wow especially since I would never eat Hot Pockets ever but the truth it is mad funny!! Now I never have had a Hot Pocket and what's more I never want one. In my youth I baked for jovial companionship's sake and surely with as much frequency as my peers and there was gorging upon junk food before during and afterward of course but-- 

Well, allow me to amend that statement for clarity and fact.

I cannot make the claim that I baked with as much frequency as my jovial companions because my peers, who were primarily my two house mates in the apartment we shared off-campus, stayed lit ALL DAY, ERRY DAY without fail. They managed a continuity of herb induced mellowness, a state of being that required rigorous discipline upon their part which worked according to a strict schedule and brooked no deviation from its religious practice. Religious I tell you. Until the Great Herb Drought of '97...ah, I tell you young uns out here you don't know nothin' until you survive a Drought, dear god. But I shan't think those bad ole days....

Our apartment was smoky basement den of herb and incense though we kept a very neat home that also benefited from excellent fresh air cross currents of the open windows and fans. If you were a fellow traveler, a Smoker-Toker-Stoner of similar religious devotion then the atmosphere was quite pleasant. But we could be driven to a furious panic and maniacal fits of house cleansing over drive for days prior to parental visits, attempting to make the quarters look and smell less.... HERBAL .....and incense overwhelmed.

One Friday evening my housemate Travis warned me that he was going to pick up his sister, who was visiting for the weekend, and that he'd be returning in 20 to 30 minutes. Being more than lightly toasted already from God's greatest and grandest plant I seated myself down at the kitchen table to sort out the seeds and stems from the dime bags I had purchased earlier that day. I was peaceably sorting -- alas, forgetting Travis' warning that he was returning directly with his older sister. Thusly, I was caught out in the shameful act as I sat at the old, beatdown wooden kitchen table cutting up a large fragrant pile of herb with a credit card. Oh! Naturally I had enough class to feel embarrassed but also felt the special  resentment a host feels   against non-toker guests: take your delicate sensibilities to somebody else's sober house for the weekend!! 

That kind of stress only causes a stoner to feel greater reliance on the holy nerve easing weedplant; after all no one wants to feel uncomfortable in their own home. It was merely the True Plant of the Lord that I was tending but I felt at that moment like Tony Montana when he was face full in the pile of  coca. All I needed was to stand and an say "Ju wanna fuck wit me?! Hey! Ju fucking wit the best okay? You fucking cock-a-roaches!"  

But that would have been a lie which would only have poorly concealed my mortification and disgrace. We were stoners but we entertained frequently and tried to present a true cozy, homely homeyness to our humble abode. Yet the truth remained that I was a weakling and poorly respected among my friends of higher tolerance and more manly consumption. While still but an innocent my dear friends pressed blunts upon me despite my feeble refusals ("Smoke this shit girl!!") only to repay their generosity/peer pressure (?) nearly instantly with my snores; inevitably in those early months following  my herbal initiation I could be relied upon to pass out after only a few puffs off a blunt.

The Bronx has changed certainly since I was there but during my hay-days (high-daze?) in the 90s  we were cursed to have to put up with a foul low quality weed sold in our neighborhood that blessed you with a wicked burn in the throat which was increased ten fold by blunts which are harsh at the best of times. It was without doubt or competition the crappiest weed in New York City. It was poor, poor, wack ass weed however, I allow that it did get you high, I must say. Visitors from other boroughs - let alone out of towners - were consistently appalled at our Bronx herb. It wasn't that we were too stupid to know good quality from shit but we were prisoners of our borough, loyal to our hood. We were college kids sure, but if it was good enough for the fine residents of the Bronx and our neighbors who surrounded us, then we chose to accept it as good enough for ourselves. Yet  these babyish, spoiled guests had the nerve and ill-manners to complain.  One can only smoke what can be procured, is this not so? And for the gargantuan and constant supply required to keep me and my housemates blunted it was simply an impracticality to go vision-questing and tromping, daily or even weekly, into other distant, unknown boroughs for such a household necessity and staple every bit as critical as bread or milk. 

Henceforth  we became strong as a result of the trials endured by smoking the Bronx weed. We were soldiers living side by side with the People of the Bronx as People of the Bronx, and we smoked what they smoked, what smoke our hometown provided. Yes this is THE BRONX, fool!! Don't come up in our house, in our hood, talking bout our shitty weed!! We knew it was shitty weed, and we acknowledged the inferiority of the seedy, stemmy, bullshit throat burning, headache causing crusty poor ass buds we smoked.  Nonetheless, we felt that it was ill befitting the manners and etiquette of guest-friendship to criticize our hospitality. since naturally hospitality demanded that we offer guests a share of  smoke if we ourselves chose to partake in front of them.

 However, as time passed, a certain Realness settled over the household presently and we three determined that hospitality did not, in fact, demand that we share with each and every guest during each and every visit. Lo, we did discern with startling clarity that some visitors verily abused our kindliness, hospitality and spirit of generosity. Thence we became wise from that which we did smoke, and thus, shared no longer. 

Truly the Herb blesses its true and faithful adherents with powerful wisdom and keen saavy.Blessed be the name of that Plant.

Furthermore it was just plain insulting to have our cordial generosity disrespected so arrogantly by moochers. Yes, the herb was shitty, but it was our herb and only we had right to  insult its quality here in our home. Indeed, do get thyself the fuck away from our bong and out of our house!!

Some guests, foul folk ill-deserving of the guestly manner by which we assiduously treated them, invariably departed with certain of our most cherished and important belongings. Thieves. Our joint roller was stolen about three different times. Three different joint rollers. People are so trifling. Once we had a party and naturally uninvited guests from our rival clique showed up. Unknown Assailants managed to find their way into one of the bedrooms and rifled through our belongings precisely in order to rob our joint roller. We never understood that. A joint roller costs like seven dollars including taxes. Go to the head-shop and get your own you thieving bastards! 

So after every party hosted for the  winsom enjoyment and pleasure of our guests, still afterwards we three had to tromp down to the Village - again - to purchase a new joint roller again. The fucking thing never failed to disappear in a crowded house. Who can you trust?! We trusted in only ourselves. Sadness and grief over the beloved joint roller endowed our bond of friendship  with unbreakable fortitude.

That is until Mayor Giuliani started to crack down on the street weed dealers in the summer of '97 or '98. My memory fails me as to which summer precisely (unsurprisingly) that the Great Drought began-- but it is certain that the first act of aggression and hostility began when Giuliani sent his band of thugs and  Brown Shirts - also known as NYPD -  to persecute the street level weed merchants, runners and other peeps of the Plant. This was the beginning of the drought on the streets that eventually became deeply serious in its effects upon my household and in many other New York City households as well. 

You cannot even understand the severity and the sufferings of this time period. All of New York City was effected. At times I feared for my friends' sanity as the nightmare of withdrawl began to set in, rear its ugly head and take hold with a ferocity that was unimaginably harsh but especially so upon those like my housemates who had been accustomed to maintaining a continuous high broken with only rare visits to the flat garish surfaces of reality and sobriety during the early days of yore, in which there was plentiful living off the fat of the land . 

As the days stretched out and my housemates' precious stash became more depleted tempers flared at the slightest annoyances: "Turn that damn Wyclef album down!! I'm fucking tired of hearing "Guantanamera"! Don't play that shit no more!! I hate Wyclef! I hate Guantanmera!! I hate you!! Arrrghh!" 

The anguished attacks  by my loved ones, my usually mellow friends who were full of cheer and good humor, became standard operating procedure around the house in the days of drought. Ah! the golden days of plenty had wound to a shocking halt. The days of lean and mean had arrived.  And once upon a time "Guantanamera" had been everything. 

There was no weed to be found in the Bronx. Or anywhere for that matter and the search to locate a mere dime bag was fraught with paranoia and true danger as well.  Only with much perseverance, frantic worry and dedicated search and seeking did the guys return one day after several hours  of searching the streets of the Bronx for the elusive herb. Mike and Travis, my roommates, were deeply effected by the circumstances that forced their lifestyle to become temporarily disrupted. And Mike, who lived joyfully off some Hot Pockets, was becoming despondent. Travis had become agitated and  aggravation bedeveled him; in this state it was interesting to glimpse the possible motivations for our smoking habits beyond the simple enjoyable escapist possibilities. Finally, after a week of trailing out deep into the Bronx streets, they found a 300 pound dealer who went by the name Jello who could be found lurking in the darkest most shadowy apartment block doorways beyond Webster Avenue. 

Jello sold huge fat 20-bags of surprisingly good weed, much better than our usual stuff. Of course his gimmick was to get new clients used to his unusually fat 20 bags, and then to slowly decrease the size and amount after clients became established loyal customers. And since Jello's competition was negligible due to NYPDs aggressive street raids  it was up to Jello to set his own price versus quantity and quality standards. Nevertheless, Travis and Mike cared little  now for the standards of old because this was a Time of Drought.

 Drought is a serious time when no laughter is allowed or heard; indeed nothing is funny at all, ever in drought only serious, hushed talks  to which I was not privy, nor invited to join. Drought shows men  and women what they are made of. Merely the suffering alone , the inability to get what one wants and needs is enough to break the weak down utterly. Because I lived with them I knew how deeply effected my housemates were, and even though my consumption was well below theirs even I began began to feel  anxiety at the lack of our beloved herb as that hot, hot summer wearily drudged on.

Each day they ventured out to hunt during the worst days of the Drought, to seek out some weed, any weed. Looking at me as they exited the house to conduct their dark business  their eyes grimly set and hardened, like menfolk taking up the mantle of Adam's sin which condemned all mankind to work by the sweat of his brow and to consume  dust forevermore.

"You can't come," they said, passing me in the kitchen, voices on edge. 

I didn't argue. Truth was I had absolutely no intention of rolling out across the Bronx streets with two white boys in a desperate search for reefer: nothing could have ensured failure more absolutely than my presence among theirs. Mike was the grunge rock guy of our group and Travis, the neat attractive gay man who easily passed for straight and whose manner was chill enough that he still earned mad respect from all the black weed dealers in the neighborhood, some of whom had signalled more than casual  interest in him. 

They'd tramp home each day after  searching in the terrible heat of July that summer, sometimes bringing green gold with them. Sometimes empty handed and hangdog, like men seeking slave-wage day-labor only to be refused, shamefaced and demoralized returning home to the womenfolk empty-handed once again. 

Travis  was practically a Master Chef by Sophomore year and he made incredibly elaborate and delicious meals. And being often  hungry this arrangement  was more than satisfactory. I probably haven't eaten so healthy or so deliciously since I moved away from our little off campus household. However Mike still drew sustenance from herb and Hot Pockets which I just couldn't understand. Seemingly  most of the  males who partake of herb swear by the glory of some Hot Pockets. I'm not disrespecting  or judging -well, only a little, but I shall continue to abstain (from Hot Pockets, I mean...what good can come from abstaining from herb, I ask you?) 

by  mcfreshcreates 
So, you see when I saw the Hot Pockets  commercial it unleashed a treasure trove of vivid memory and nostalgia for the days of my Bronx life during those college years when I fancied myself a grown -up but in reality I know now that we all were merely kids, lucky and blessed enough to be able to attend school away from home in one of the most majestic cities in the world.

 But I digress: I don't know who the blond girl in the Hot Pockets commercial is, nor the purpose of her presence beyond the whole piano rendition of "You got what I need" duet, which is finely performed by all participants. Whenever I have the opportunity to watch Bow Wow it is always a good day, not to mention how fortunate it is that one can legally and morally lust after him now that he is an adult and not feel quite so guilty for objectifying him...because it is no lie that as a child he showed great promise in his future manhood. 

I assure you, dear Reader, that I am not presently baked though I cannot deny a wistful fondness that has arisen as I write this; it would not be an unwelcome state, not at all. Still I merely wished to transcribe a detailed, accurate account of a little known chapter in the history of my merriest days; to create a portrait of those balmy precious summer days in the quaint 1990s. Let this be a memoir of my bohemian years in New York City living a student's life replete with friendship and occasional study, mellowly drifting afloat on a cloud of incense and herb .

Will Madam President Hillary Clinton Be Our Moses or Our Pharoah?

The rampant nostalgia and urgent attempts to rush in the age of Madam President Hilary Clinton disturb me on some levels. Hillary needs to come correct with some very detailed proposals of what her vision for the country is now that we have endured eight years of decline and warfare under George W and constant gridlock and political sabotage by the right under President Obama. 

But there are some uncomfortable truths that have to be examined in the Clintonian record not the least being  the fact that make no mistake  Bill and Hillary are a team. We know this. But consider that it was Bill Clinton who passed NAFTA and the consequences of that piece of labor change has resulted in the near complete collapse of manufacturing jobs here in the US the very industries that sustained the nation with great economic wealth for a vast section of the country's workers following WWII. NAFTA enabled and empowered corporations  to abandon American workers entirely and no incentive it seems shall ever coax them back short of redistribution of the wealth in reverse where the American worker consents to a sort of serfdom for the greater glory of ipad production and higher definition television manufacture. A sort of friendly fascism has now begun to take hold and its shadow is  a terror and a menace that holds everyone of us in thrall.

Then there is Madam Clinton's hawkishness in the international sphere. Will she enter office with the intention of further beating the drum of support for Israel and its endless pursuit of destruction of the Palestinian cause?? Wil it be her intention to continue to enable those policies  of the Geo. W Bush era in search of a destabilized Middle Eastern country to topple in order to achieve the ultimate dream of  an oil colony to service the West's addiction to Jeep Cherokees, Range Rovers and Hummers at the price of fifty cents per gallon of gas? 

In many ways Hillary is such a dark horse and so inscrutable so that it is deeply critical that those on the left hold her responsible and relentlessly pin her down on her intentions. Ideally she will be able to achieve what has  been impossible for President Obama to even consider, much less achieve, the pursuit overhauling the badly decayed infrastructure of the United States.  In addition to the jobs this could provide it is also deeply critical to address the chaos and brittle breakdown that is progressing at such a desperate rate here at home.  We're bleeding out and yet -- forgive the coming wild  mix of metaphors -- the band plays on as the ship sinks lower and the victim is trying to ignore that his life blood and spirit are steadily seeping out preferring to make some quick last minute tweets,  one last shout out to friends and family about Dancing With the Stars before fading with barely a whimper. (if you're going to mix metaphors be brave and creative dammit Besides its impossible to overstate the desperate nature of America's problems.)

Madam Hillary is now quite legitimately that grandest of dames, and an old time pol, a veteran of backroom deal making done amidst hard men who are busy dividing up the world;s favors between nations and themselves. She has such potential I want to believe but only  fool underestimates a Clinton and I feel exhilarated and uneasy equally. She could be one of the Great Presidents of our time, indeed of anytime. 

But the question is whether she will pursue a status quo of political policies further cementing the almost unlimited power and freedom of the oligarchs? Will she allow that self interest to drive the country further into the disappearing landscape into the desert. We citizens are held at gunpoint by our very own politicians and someone needs to stand ahead of the multitudes and cry out Let my people go!!  Yes that's meoldramatic -- I am Politrixie I live for the passion and sloppy emotion of melodrama but I know common damn sense and how to call a spade --  andcan you truly say it isn't necessary?

She could be the One. But will hers and Bill's penchant for the glitz and glamour, for personal glory, the fancy friends and love for the exclusive clubs of cozy world leaders be the seduction away from her  from her would be populist tendencies. One thing is certain: if American wants Hillary then every citizen owes it to himself to force her to produce, to demand she live up to her own legendary intelligence and the hope that she represents for so many desperate individuals right now. If you love her then pressure her with the desperation. Force her to part the Red Sea and free the lot of us because anything else is pap or failure.

 Don't go all mushy eyed and soft!! Fight her in order to fire her with inspiration to fight for us. The consequences are too dire and times are not improving. Shit got real pretty damn quick. So let's make sure she knows that we expect her to do the business for the people not for the businessmen in the board rooms and back rooms.

Saturday, November 2, 2013

Thoughts On Writing and Shit, Literally Speaking

Wanting to write and not being able to is like being constipated and unable to find any Sennakot anywhere. Or worse even. Drugs can give you a blast of creativity -- like an enema perhaps? - but that's entirely unreliable. You aren't truly in control of the quality of what you produce. People say "be patient, it'll come!" just like if you were straining for a shit or something. Makes me so mad. The not-writing issue and the constipation type platitudes too. But you know just when you give up and decide to go for a run or something then you feel the urge and it's like "Uh-oh!!" Trying to find the corresponding equivalent to force creativity however is no less frustrating. But you never know I might get the urge any minute now...jus sayin...if you read this and have unpleasantness in your head now I can't apologize I'm just venting. (Venting, ha!!)

*Regarding UnCredited Art Featured on Politrixie

Dear Politrixters:

I feature art that I find all over the web and whenever possible I credit the artist. If you find your work featured here uncredited or if you know the artist of any work featured please drop   a message and I will gladly make amends!!

Politrixter in Chief

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Goodbye Was the Lie

Perhaps you already have enough
by Ellygator
and my love is too much
like a noisy distraction
or an unwanted touch
so you've said
I must be mad to disbelieve
is it just my desire my imagination
my doubt and my dreams
my hope to survive hopelessness
or a faith which remains
stubborn despite
the unseen
the hunch
that gut level punch without nary
a contact between fist and stomach

unrevealed and secret
yet one swears
the truth
of these ghosts in the mind
that one insists must exist
but the doctors drone on
airily dismiss
wave away
the mind's impenetrability
quirks & tricks
when confronted with loss
with unendurable
shock at reality's cruel

yet I see you
with sight unerringly precise
and I feel that rage inside that
you fail to conceal
(you've never successfully hidden much from me)
perhaps to some you appear
well contained
or to others difficult to comprehend
but I know your ways
beyond some who cherish you
have you
and hold you
each day

and often I wonder if that rage is born
in frustration at having been exposed
is it anger that you cannot with me
hold on to your pose
the rage of the suddenly
whose ruse was unmasked
and revealed you to yourself

and it's true that you do not
belong to me
it's true that we are separated
by continents and seas
it's true that sight exists
in more than just the eyes
it's true that un-truths can be
commissioned  beyond
mere words to establish
pretense and lies

convince yourself
if that is
what you need
reassure yourself that standing
in front of you
is all that  can be possessed
loved or seen

pretend that you don't
to hold

perhaps one day
you will actually

but the rage inside
won't let you be
it is the evidence of your own denial
even yourself you cannot deceive

and in your heart you can test this truth
do you love me?
do you truly wish to say goodbye?
are you reading this, love?
ask yourself now:
do you lie?

Goodbyes need not be
so hurtful nor so cruel
nor do those bidding
continue to seek secretly
the sight
of a stone dead amour
as you do
and I


Wednesday, October 9, 2013

It's Mental Wellness Awareness Week Be Educated and Be Well

 It is Mental Illness week and there are still far too many people who believe that the term itself is some kind of profanity as if speaking of it can expose you to a contagious infection. In fact if people were more aware, less judgmental and bigoted then it would be possible to promote mental wellness and recognize the ways that mental illness AND wellness effect us all. In the 21st century many people still discuss Depression as "an excuse for a self pity party" or as self indulgence. "Just snap out of it! Take a walk, get some fresh air and smile and you'll be fine. Don't be so negative all the time." This kind of ignorance and stigmatizing are dangerous and counter-productive to individuals who suffer from mental illness and to the wellness of society as a whole. So educate yourself and help end the stigma.

You may think that no one you know struggles with mental wellness issues but I can guarantee you that whoever you are you absolutely, positively, definitely, and without doubt know someone who is struggling and wrestling silently but valiantly to overcome some disorder categorized under the large umbrella. At times in my life I have struggled with Depression and anxiety that has varied in intensity from extremely bleak to merely mildly disruptive. However my mother has struggled with crippling Depression for 30 years. Like any other disease mental illnesses have genetic factors too. 

But one's challenges to mental wellness need not be the definitive trait to describe one's character, talents, goals and life. Most important of all be proactive in regard to your wellness - you keep your teeth clean and visit the dentist regularly right? Then damn skippy seek professional support and assistance for your mind as well! Psychology and psychiatry are not voodoo science no matter what Tom Cruise tells you. Be healthy. Be brave. Be smart and educate your brain so that you can always take care of your own mental wellness. False courage, fear, stigma and embarrassment intimidate people who need help from seeking it and avoiding doctors who can help one heal costs lives everyday. Don't let someone you love become a casualty to diseases that can be treated -- don't let yourself be a casualty. 

End the cycle of shame and help usher in an era of hope, awareness and wellness!! Pass it on!!

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Wannafuck Nation

Wannafuck Nation comes alive 
   between the hours of 12 -5
What you want? I'll give you the fuck, if you gimme the bucks
   she said with a smile
Give me a lift and I'll let you come inside
Me? Oh I work too. What do you do? 
What do you make - love or war? 
    she says with wink
Inside she thinks, Do I even love my body anymore?

What's your real price?
Have you discovered it yet?
Wannafuck Wannafuck Wannafuck
   they all say
Come on baby, he says
You're famous I know your name
Come on, baby, will I get off from the ride?
She smiles
  I'm famous muthafucka! 
  Damn right!

Fidelity is about property 
and I prefer property I find

You found me and there's plenty of gain
Me & me & me times ten
What are you worth if I get all that?
More than you know and more than you'll get
    but she doesn't say that she smiles
    she knows the game
    get off this is wannafuck nation
    getting paid is its own inspiration
    she is only as strong as her last conquest
    but free and her own after coming 
    from the last paying guest
Hysteria by Natalie Shau

The Mothership Has Run Out of Gas

Do old Hippies  die                                               
Or do they just fade away?
Are Soul Brothas & Sistas fighting 
the Power
Still convinced that the Man will topple
in the Revolution any day now?

Old Hippies Soul Brothas & Sistas
Do you know where your children are?

Because they ain't down for the Struggle
and can't find a Cause
And some of the kids 
think the Movement
Sold Out

Time has recycled itself again 
Free Love off-spring 
wanna be the Man  
     Fuck communes! Yo, I need my space
     My MTV Crib, money!
     Old man you lame
     Back up outta my face
     Talking that  shit bout
     One Day We'll All Be Free
     I'm tryna come up, son
     Tryna get paid, B!
     That Peace & Love shit is in my way
     I ain't hearing you, money.
     Not today.

Hippies Soul Brothas & Sistas Unite
We learned this from watching you, daddy-o
The X Factor Files say the truth is out there
and fame is what it's about

Now the aristocrats are y'all
Former Hippies Soul Brothas & Sistas
21st Century reformed 
by money and clout
Gone are the Flower Children and the Revolutionaries No
Of once upon time
And to think y'all were the ones
who actually had it all figured out

Now the names have been changed
There's no innocence left
ain't nobody brave
Times ain't the same
and the Cause got complex
You got the next generation 
feeling hella vexed

Dig this you Masters of the Universe: 
Capitalism ain't gonna defeat no muthafuckin' Terrorists!

Hippies Soul Brothas & Sistas
You had it all:
The Villains to fight
Movements and Marches
Protest and always, forever
the Holy of Holies
the ever sacred Cause
(Hey, Marge, tell those damn kids to get off my lawn!!)

You are aimless 
like Eve & Adam
After the Fall
Homeless in America

Hippies Soul Brothas & Sistas
You had it on lock
You were in the front seat
You were driving the Dream
down the highway
to Freedom
At Last!!

Now you got us out here

the Mothership has run out of gas

Monday, October 7, 2013

I Came To Testify Because I Missed Me So Much. Thank You and Amen

In the Black Church there is a tradition called "testifying" which means publicly acknowledging to all and sundry your happiness, joy and gratitude when something good comes into your life. It's not about giving thanks mechanically or simply for show. Testifying is a phenomenon of being moved by the Spirit and deeply emotional. As a child I remember seeing men and women pop up like jack-in-the-boxes weeping and moaning and raising their hands, calling on God and the Church to "witness" their true and utter joy. 

Older women who were very poor and subsisted on their small wages as cleaning ladies would be moved to witness for the Lord and testify how grateful they were Wednesday when the kind man from the electric company decided to turn his back and not cut off the lights because she sincerely begged his mercy, instead walking away and allowing a few extra days to scrounge up the money so her electric wasn't disconnected. 

Or you might hear someone testify with tears streaming down for happiness that the doctor said the cancer was in remission. The tears and the manner of the testifying sometimes frightened me because the folks telling their stories would sound so fierce that I couldn't tell if they were angry, or maybe ready to fight. They would testify with a violent joy, a tempest of gratitude. Even though I heard the words of thanks their manner seemed entirely contradictory to people who were supposedly so happy and "filled with the Spirit".

What kind of blessing made you jump up and down, cry, and shout all at the same time? Whatever it was I was sure that I didn't want none of it, thank you very much. But then as I grew older I began to discern the interplay of emotion and Spirit and everyday Blues within the testimonies. These men and women came to church every Sunday - and sometimes on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday through Saturday as well - as refugees fleeing to sanctuary, as pilgrims escaping the persecution of the World. The Black Church was the place where even the class distinctions and other hierarchies within Black culture itself ceased to make a difference because everyone was a child of God, a soul basking in the love of God. 

But what kind of Love did this God have for his witnesses I wondered because it seemed to me that the troubles these folk spoke of were the most tragic and terrible experiences. Illness and poverty. Injustice and loneliness. Upheaval, loss, death, family disputes. Any and every sorrow you can name is what each church member brought to the congregation like gifts from the Three Wise Men. They offered their troubles up like precious jewels dug from the wealth of the earth with their own hands presenting their bloodied hands and torn nails for one and all to witness. What was this "spirit" they continually spoke of? And how could it be worth experiencing?

My family was not religious. When I was young my mother took us to church with our grandmother more out of duty and tradition, and much less than for true devotion to community or respect for the pastor's word and leadership. By the time I was ten she had quarrelled so fiercely with most of the city's leading Reverends that we just stopped attending at all. Given the opportunity my mother would challenge a preacher with militancy and rage catching the unsuspecting man of guard and placing him on a rapidly diminishing defense like an animal caught in a trap.

My mother studied theology obsessively, feverishly always searching, seeking answers to her questions, and all of my mother's questions can easily be boiled down to a basic essence, to one single inquiry: WHY? When my parents' marriage began to violently crumble they both sought pastoral counselling initially. But the pastoral counselling ended with a tremendous failure during the first session when the good Reverend commanding my mother to submit to her husband's will as her duty to the Lord; no matter if her husband cheated, lied or beat her. "God gave man dominion over the earth, the animals and his wife. You are disobedient," he said. And with that statement my mother's life as a Christian reached its sunset. 

It was the 80s and she dabbled and explored the New Age movement, read extensively
By Vicente Romero Redondo
about Judaism, studied with seminary graduate students whom she befriended when she began working in the seminary book store. Nevermind that she spent all her paycheck on the books in the store, she was a seeker; she was finding her path. 

Still the Black Church had been her home for her entire lifetime and even after running away from home she surrounded herself - by extension my brother and me also - with certain comforts and trappings that were native to the Black Church, her former home. Chiefly gospel music. The sounds of mass choirs raised power and harmony, rich melodies carried by musicians dedicating their talent to God. 

And this is how I began to feel and understand all that talk of the Spirit, its force and power to move one to that state of testimony. The power of gospel music is not something that can be described in words, it must be felt so I shan't waste much time extolling its extraordinary and unique virtues. As I grew older and found myself always returning to those very same comforts at the same time I began to mature enough to experience those sorrows and pains that I saw people bringing to the church congregation as a small child. 

Having felt the force of the music and the harsh chastisement of worldly burdens I then was able to find emotional release in those choirs and those songs that I first heard in church then heard from my mother's vinyl albums. 

I began this essay meaning to sit down and testify for a great sorrow that had found some mercy from the universe but the gratitude that I felt as I sat to write expressed itself in this manner rather than in the confessional witnessing I meant to present. Sometimes in those moments of spiritual gratefulness there is such vast feeling that you often do not realize its complexity until you do testify. In that crying, rocking, moaning, hand waving witnessing you unknowingly run a gauntlet of emotion that appears wild and frenzied. To any outsider with no knowledge of the tradition of testifying as practiced in the Black Church it certainly would seem as a form of madness. A temporary breakdown mentally perhaps. It seemed so to me as a child sitting in the church. 

Yet now it is the greatest blessing, that visitation of spirit. I sat down to give thanks for a healing in my heart and in my mind. It is a small thing to any other perhaps; I was sick with sorrow, depressed and often unable to get out of bed. I went to the doctor, he gave me some medicine. That's all. There is no drama in that, a rather simple account it would seem to another. It is simple. But the suffering was not, the suffering was unbearable, desperate and bleak. In a world of famine and war and governmental breakdown my sorrow is no grand thing when others are so much more needy than I. 

Nevertheless I am thankful, so deeply thankful that there was help. An anti depressant. One tiny orange pill. I took my first dose today and in ten minutes flat I felt the oppressive darkness lift. I got out of bed - lately if I get out of bed at all it's a terrible effort - went to fix my coffee, then sat down to write. My daily routine. Except for such a long time it seems my routine had broken down and in the grip of the depression it feels like nothing will ever be the same again. I knew that I needed help, needed to talk to a doctor but it seemed that it took far more energy than I possessed. The effort in merely picking up the phone to call the doctor's office took several days to accomplish.

And today after one dose I'm back to my routine. 

My routine - waking up, getting out of bed, sitting down to write - is my happiness, my joy. 

It is a small thing probably very frivolous, very trivial, very mundane. Not really worth so

many words maybe. In the worst, darkest days in a depression it feels as if you'll languish alone in isolation and misery for eternity. I don't wish to sound melodramatic or mawkish. But I am so deeply grateful and it was my need to testify, to witness.

The doctor said in two weeks I should be feeling "much better", and that in six weeks I should be quite returned to my old self. This is the first day I have seen even a glimmer of my old self and I'm so happy because I missed HER, my old self. Just the thought that SHE will be returning permanently in a month's time fills me with ecstatic joy. 

I am so grateful. So thankful.