You Always Gotta Be Thinking

I never thought...
But that's my first mistake, see,
You always gotta be thinking.
But at this point, I was on autopilot
Going to work, watching the ink turn violet
Across the keyboard my fingers glided
I didn't try to hide it, but
For sanity's sake, it stayed hidden.
And as my normal life unfolded as written
Between the lines something was missing.
And even if I was ashamed or sadder
Or whether it was a little of the former and the latter
It didn't produce chatter, because
Hardly anyone knew, so
It didn't matter.
And it was because of this lame indifference
That I continued to feign interest in the same stuff
When they'd come back around, though,
I acted tough
Because a woman might not come out and say it,
but she knows when enough is enough.
And it was at this particular juncture
When I thought this balloon of sanity was about to be punctured
That I started thinking.
And yes, it might have been after I'd been drinking
But suddenly, I realized that shit wasn't all on me
And I stopped sinking.
And it was like I woke up from a nap so long
You don't even remember when it started
And you realize maybe all of it was just a bad dream
And you and the dream are now parted
And you bolt out of bed happy as can be
Because the dream left you brokenhearted
But a dream is nothing, for pity's sake.
Monsters and shame are just a fake.
And just when you think it's too much for one person to take,
You wake
And notice the blue and white sky outside your window, maybe for the first time
And you think,
I never thought it would be like this.
But that's your first mistake, see
You always gotta be thinking.

Celebrate (Written for Juneteenth celebration, Waterloo)

Celebrate because a celebration is taking place

And you don't need an excuse to swap laughs and handshakes

Eat hot dogs, chicken wings and cake

Celebrate because the park is green

And the sun's shining

Celebrate cause there's kids hollering

And babies crying.

Celebrate because the history books permeate the deep corners of our brains

Celebrate because while there's still so much hate, love remains.

Celebrate because that was us on the ships

And us in chains

Celebrate for Amistad and Roots and Bad Boyz and Friday

Celebrate for each of the 870 days

between Lincoln's pen and freedom

Celebrate because we recognize they cheated em.

Celebrate for abolitionists fighting for Emancipation

Celebrate because we remember, somewhere, the elation

Celebrate in memory of Martin, Malcolm and Marcus

Celebrate whether you're as white or as dark as us

Celebrate for a U.S. Government apology centuries later

Celebrate because it's never too late to stop being a hater.

Celebrate like you just heard from an unknown soldier

astride on a horse all in white

That all this time you thought you were blind in a tunnel

You were only waiting on light.

I Could Never Be a Poet

(What's she doin on the mic? ... Don't worry.)

I could never be a poet

because I've got a fear of speaking in public.

I'd rather retreat in shyness and embarrassment

Than stand up and share it.

I could never be a poet

because I didn't grow up

listening to The Last Poets or Nikki Giovanni

My mother's records didn't include spoken word

though she did teach me to write in rhythmic curves.

I could never be a poet

because I didn't have hardship after hardship

slamming down on my psyche like a sledgehammer on a bolt,

punching me into the ground until there's only a little left.

I could never be a poet

because I don't take enough breaths.

I could never be a poet

because experience has led me to believe

that I can't tell what is wrong from what is right.

I could never be a poet

because I'm white.

I could never be a poet

because I'm not very polished or skillful,

and sometimes I willfully leave the edges rough.

I could never be a poet

cause I don't know when I've said enough.

I could never be a poet

because I crack too many jokes

that get too analytical.

I could never be a poet

cause I'm too political.

I could never be a poet

because I have a job

that doesn't just let you shout whatever you want from the hills.

I could never be a poet

cause it doesn't pay my bills.

I could never be a poet

because you could write your whole life

and never find that gem.

I could never be a poet

who's anything like them.

I could never be a poet

because there aren't enough letters, words, phrases, pens and paper

to possibly document all the world's beauty and abuses.

I could never be a poet

cause I've got too many excuses.

I could never be a poet

because I'm still figuring out

whether I'm a young girl, a chick, a woman,

a hippie, a traveler, a lover, a miss or a ma'am.

I could never be a poet except
I already am.

The Non-Poem

I want to tell you what this poem is about

But I can't, I won't

I'm ashamed

I want to tell you all of the details of my life

The good, the bad

The unnamed

If I were brave, like Toni Morrison

Or I didn't give a fuck, like Sylvia Plath

or I could somehow conceal myself and still tell a compelling story, like

whoever wrote that "Go Ask Alice" book

Then this poem would be easier to write

And easier to say.

As it is, the light of day catches my face

And reflects me and my words back to a captive audience

Who may or may not listen and may or may not judge

And may or may not discard my message or carry it with them

Fuck. That's a lot of pressure.

And yet, I want to tell you. Really, really badly.

Call it human nature, or narcissism

But it's nice to tell people what you know and what you're thinking

and especially what you've done

So they can validate you or be confused by you

Or hate on you, or ridicule you

Until you feel very, very small...

Never mind, I can't do this poem at all.

I Do It for the Poetry

Money, power, fame, glory

Keep it all, give me one good story

Cuz I do it for the poetry

Poets making money got the dollars when they do it

Andrew Jackson touches palm, touches wallet

Touches palm at retail store

Where money poets go for more

Until they're broke and pens go back to paper

To the paper, from the paper, by the paper, for the paper

Going home to paper houses

Paper children, paper spouses

Papered over your coffin as you incinerate

But if you know paper, you know the rain disinegrates

Money poets -- your fate

Money, power, fame, glory

Keep it all, give me just one good story

Cuz I do it for the poetry

Other poets start out shy and profound

Power poets just start out loud

Act like more than themselves.

Audience reaction touches nerve, touches pen

Touches fire-breathing, tongue-lashing words

That riccochet back to reaction, feeds both fires

Power poets smoke hoots, hollers, cheers and boos to take them higher

And blow out toxins

Spew the garbage about strangers to their faces

Putting women and haters in their places

Yelling, cursing, fighting words

Without solutions to wit

Cuz really, power poets can't say shit

Money, power, fame, glory

Keep it all, give me just one good story

Cause I do it for the poetry

Some poets come to the mic looking and sounding tight

But these fame and glory poets tonight

Have no back story, just noise

These poets just like hearing the sound of their voice

And seeing their name in lights

Lights touching skin, touching clothes glittering

Glaring off paper, sending fears skittering into darkness

Dark hearts share nothing of substance

Pens glance and scribble to the smiles of the powerful

Who pat their backs and shoulders

Eyes shooting daggers, fame and glory poets never see boulders coming

And they get crushed.

Money, power, fame, glory

Keep it all. Give me one substantive, intricate, beautiful story

Cuz some of us still do it for the poetry....

The Freestyle

I'm a punk
Walking into a room
People acting like they wouldn't care if I left soon
I'm the one
Laughing way too loud
And you'll never have trouble picking me out of a crowd
I'm not rich
Talk is cheap, you see
But I've got all these birdies tryin to pigeonhole me
That won't fly
I'm just out to have fun
Who else u know calls a swimming pool a natatarium?
Play with words, synonyms
You're not fast, you're just slim
I'm the reaper, you're grim
You're a good antonym
Like a verbal violin
You're a screech, I'm a hymn
But nobody ever wins
When you're dust in the wind.
I'm a girl
Underneath the street lights
Hearing Mom yell at Dad until they quit for the night
Like a drug
That I take too much
I just try to leave the house when enough is enough
I'm a woman
Comfortable alone
Doesn't want to turn shelter into that kind of a home
So I go
The travel bug bit me
And I don't settle down like a hippie gypsy
Play with sentences and verbs
I'm the city, you're the burbs
I'm the bike, you're the curb
You don't move, I can swerve
If you ever get the nerve
Choice of straightaway or curve
Take the one that makes you curse
And put it in your next verse
Cuz it can't be much worse
Than what I pull out of my verbal purse

Let's Talk About Sex

There's only one message I have for a
sex-loving nation
If you don't want babies, then don't
practice condom procrastination
If you don't want diseases, get tested
before getting down in elation
And if you can't do that, then baby,
try masturbation.

My State

Iowa has always been
An outcast, a standout
An easily recognizable face from the crowd
I identify with Iowa
A girl who never seemed to find a particular
rhythm, purpose or place
But blazed her own path
Lighted only by her ambitions
And the promise of what could be.
There are other states around Iowa
Watching, waiting
teasing, baiting, sneering, hating.
But no other states facilitating.
No other states improving their situation
But Iowa integrated its schools over 80 years
before the rest of em did
So don't tell me Iowa's gonna stop
a loving couple wanting to adopt some kids
Or file joint taxes
Or get spousal benefits
Because just like I don't have to be a young
black student
to believe integrated schools are fair,
There's no one who can give me a
good reason
to disallow two women from putting flowers in
their hair
to prevent two adult men from publicly touching
hands with care.
A reason, untouched by hate and ignorance,
exists not.
You try to preach to me what Jesus taught?
Instead, watch Iowa win boldly
those victories we fought.

Why I SaYes

I SaYes because saying otherwise would prove futile

Because my imagination is too vivid,

my thoughts too brutal

to pretend my verbal works of art are just
a few doodles

I SaYes knowing full well this could all be for naught

Like, what do I have that these other poets don't got?

Or, what can I say that they haven't already taught?

But I still go out there every night and give it a shot

I SaYes because I can't say no

The rhythmic lyricism of the flow

Prevents me every night from being another no-show

I SaYes to chronicle the lives of the living

and the lies of the walking dead

To move the dialogue beyond he-said, she-said

To prove you can have something to say,

even if performing on stage you dread

To let it all just flow out of my head

I SaYes.

What is freedom?

They say we live in America,

land of the free

But tell me how many people you see

growing up poor and hungry

Livin like it's a third-world country

A developing nation

That couldn't develop past the fixation

Of making money, money, money

Honey I know it's a capitalist elation

That a person can go from poor to rich

But why don't the rich ever aspire to be poor?

Maybe that could settle the score

Cuz right now all this money's an endless chore

Rich people don't live here, so rob from the poor

Hold up another late-night convenience store

One dude robs six different banks and never gets caught

Another girl is beaten to death in a parking lot.

They say it's gotta stop

But they're not telling the cops

Cause family loyalties is apparently all we got

But it really stems from cash

You want security? Here's your stash.

It's not a sickness but an infected gash

That's not yet bad enough to amputate

Like an infection, the money permeates the skin

And only bad stuff gets in

The arm says, "I'm not the leg

And I don't hurt, so I won't beg."

And the wounds begin to fester

And the rich ones in their restorated

homes on Prospect Boulevard

Don't care anymore that life is hard

They've got their million-dollar cars

And drive real fast past Sullivan Park

And scoff at newspapers telling of the city's scars

"they chose that life," they say

And far below,

in places those from Prospect never go

Americans are free to choose their fate

Between slinging drugs or paying the rent late

Going in one unemployment line and out the other

And the leg looks up at the arm and pleads,

"My brother, my brother."

This may be a freedom from which we'll never recover.