Posted in life, love, New Work, Poetry, Self-discovery and growth


Don’t call me black,

Call me by my name,

call me by my humanity.

“Black” is one of the many colors

found in the crayon box,

the ink of a pen,

the darkness of shadow;

a shade devoid of character or light –

Yet, I am full of light.

Colors are ideals driven by perception,

Color is only surface.

Pigmentation runs deep.

The green of grass and in the leaves of plants

are not surface colors.

When they get wet,

their green doesn’t wash away;

it gets brighter

it is part of them.

Strip the bark from a tree,

it’s still brown

or shades of it

because brown is within its


My pigment doesn’t wash away or rub off –

my melanin is my crowning glory.

Neither of these are identifiers –

and I’m not simply a color.

Yes, I am melanated,


I am a person, a being,

of presence, of energy,

of spirit.

I am vital, valuable.

I am adequate.

I am wombman, mother,

I am love itself.

I cannot be classified,

I have class, and…

I am a class all my own.

These “identifications” only exist

to isolate me, separate me,

Invalidate me.

Don’t call me black,

Don’t call me brown,

don’t call me by what you see

on my surface.

Don’t you dare…

I’m more than just that,

I’m more than what is visible.

My layers are their own nature,

not validated simply by a color name.

They are a tangle of blood and bone,

muscle and vein,

emotion and thought…

of pain, and of love.

I bleed when I am cut

I cry when I am hurt

or happy.

I sleep when I am tired

I eat when I am hungry.

I drink when I have thirst;

I imagine, I ideate, I innovate.

I have goals and dreams.

I achieve, and I fail.

Am I so different from

any other being of humanity

that my identity

should be systematized by

a single word,

a color, no less,

a hue?

Is that all I am?

To many, maybe.

To those who know me, love me,

They understand there is more to me

than what the eye sees.

Call me by my name,

Acknowledge my identity.

Call me who I am –

Not what you perceive me as.

Posted in life, New Work, Poetry, Self-discovery and growth

Know Me

Dinner tonight was

Ben & Jerry’s


a shot of rum;

Not melancholy or troubled,

not even stressed.

Just…reminding myself

that sometimes it’s okay

to eat and drink things that are bad for me

for the good of my own pleasure.

Now and again, indulgence is necessary.

And besides,

why in the hell would I ever

model my entire life after

beings of

flesh and blood and flaws

who don’t even know me

like I do?

Posted in life, New Work, Poetry


You like to push buttons

detonate triggers,

throw switches.

You like being surrounded by

chaos and confusion;

Volatility –

Your victims never see you coming

because you mask your intent

with pretty words

and intermittent affection

to get  what you  want…

means to ends –

We were only friends

when you had something to gain

from our companionship.

I pulled the killswitch long ago –

I just never initiated its sequences

…until now.


17 May 2020
Posted in life, New Work, Poetry

Buzzed Whimsy (Liquor)

In all honesty,
I can’t handle
my liquor –

Even in pure consciousness
as clouded understanding
grows thicker…

There are no meatballs
in these forecasts;
Even substantial chunks of logic
haul themselves up
at half-mast.

Laughter resonates,
fuel for thought pilots
of hopeless bombast.

Free as finality,
so they say,
free at last,
bright as the day.

And I…
Release all
that’s not worthwhile –
even admittedly, I smile
much less ;
anyway, smiles don’t last…

Not in wherewithal.

I do my best
but only because
someone has to heed the(se) lessons
of gratitude, humility –

Ignorance of bliss.

Found my humanity
on predestined crash course –

And…I like my highness
without a horse,

More so than I do
the buzzed whimsy
of lonesome remorse.

Posted in life, New Work, Poetry

Habitual Atonement

When the world’s all wobbly,
life seems on an even keel –
But that’s only when logic’s
not a high factor,
and I’m operating by feel.

I wonder if rum
or even wine
will be my downfall;
Because after multiple shots
and glasses,
I’m pleasantly numb…

It’s hard to answer the call(s)
of obligation
and happenstance
as they
occur to the dumb.

Yet, I succumb, and…
I think I never
had a chance
at normalcy
or finding belong;

It’s like life is a prelude,
death its fateful song –
Tipsy even as
I write this,
and not even sobriety
can right this.

Coconut oil my cleansing balm;
I only wonder if I’ve been doing this
completely wrong –

Only time will tell,
its passing
and measuring judgment
is an uncertain level of Hell.

I miss the time where
perceived right
was acceptable escutcheon –

And yet…

It’s my atonement
habitual repugnance.

Posted in life, New Work, Poetry


Every new year
starts a bit belated
for me,
as has much in my life –
including same.

I shrug off resolution,
impervious to the habitual
regular refrains
of strangers and peers…

I’m hesitant to use the “promise”
of (a) new year
as excuse;
An empty motivation
toward what I neglected to attempt
in the year yester.

Time is only lost when it is ignored.

And so this year arrived anew,
as prompt as they always muster.
Somehow I didn’t notice
until after
that first, shiny new day
faded into the diaphanous folds
of precious memory.

Maybe I’m more jaded now,
my proclivities for newness
and also novelty
appear to have lost their luster.

Posted in New Work, Poetry


We never notice

when the ice melts;


through feigned annoyance

at the precipitation

on the glass

as the water mellows to meniscus;

Somehow we miss

the naked glory divine

in the simple, prepense cycles

of the life


we declare inane

and eventually leave