The streets are growing
colder
again. women skirts drag heavy in the wind
again. scarves and seasons
go together
and the poems are coming
waves
of ink spewing self-righteous
from these human hands
hands
holding intentions raving
ego like a reflection
painted by the image
dark object
replicating dust like broken walls
dismantled dreams dancing slow in the breath of fantasy
what would I have been
had I gone the other way
had my mother not walked the path
that led her faithful
to care for this other child
this younger me
with German words in her mouth
this version of me
sibling
she is beautiful
and my mother had to leave me
to retrieve her
from another continent
she dreams of being achaeologist
and I have become dreamer
of things impossible
holder of women's truths
women's mouths vomitting the lies we were told
I have become my own struggle
tightening noose around my own neck
diviner of sands
rocks providing raft for floods
window become door
sometimes you have to step through an opening
held higher than you expected
window become door
sometimes you have to walk through
what you have only been looking through
humanity
is the season of imagination
changing
green leaves searing hot under the torrent of summer
darkening beautiful and red
falling white and wicked
winter is the long walk
towards he winds stillness
and I hold myself
eagle in its wake
spread hope and wonder above the blue water
I am home
in this air too cold to breathe
I can be home in my poems
in these crazy lines I address to strangers
home is the twisted lock of New York
wrapped round the slender strand of Jamaica
as I venture out
the world awaits and I begin again
this cycle of leaving
of coming home
home is where the last poem was read
denver
here I come
connecticut
sarah lawrence
boston
baltimore
chicago
stamford
all these poems
and nothing but cities
to pass through
in love and the joy of the places I have not been,
Staceyann
amidst the whir of vacuum cleaners
in the lobby of the hotel
Asian voices
I assume them Korean
only because I assume them so
they might be something else entirely
and I might be wrong
in this hotel in Copenhagen
the smallest room I have ever seen
and Marcus is snuggled into new understanding
and I am missing my woman
who is missing me
somewhere in New York City
Brooklyn
and parks
and how did I come to fit so easily
into a city
not of my birth
yesterday flew by mad fast
it was mad packed
with plane rides
and delays
and studio interviews
two times I performed
two shows
and I was so tired
I had to fall asleep without the leisure
of thinking of you
all along the English alphabet
I stopped at the letter G
and was ashamed
that I could not stay awake
for that breathy letter H
but I have thought of you 52 times
having been through the ABCs
twice already today
and noon just passed by my hot chocolate
made from the machine in the lobby cafe
one lone white fellow
at the table across from me
and I lost a journal yesterday
wrote poems about the things of greatest value
I have sometimes lost
my mind
my mother
my hatred for her
how I think of her gently now
warrior woman making choices I might spend
more than this lifetime trying
to understand
pretty woman
my mother brown like my lover like em
strong
independent
and brutal
it seems that way from far away
but hurricanes
are gusts of wind that decided to grow bigger
I found the journal hours later in the airport
and the winds threaten the place
I call home when I am missing my grandmother
how removed it all seems
I am always in Scandinavia when shit happens at home
blackout in New York
election drama in 2000
for the American 911 I was in Jamaica
hours landed
from New York
things happen when I fly
Copenhagen was all open arms and a room
reminiscent of the Nuyorican
and Nicolette
read poems all the way from Switzerland
and Frederik
and Klaus were wonderful
and I will always love these white faces
that provide contrast for the faces from Burundi
and Eritrea
and Turkey
women are beautiful
when painted brown
in a crowd of Danes
there were Asians and Indians
and maybe globalization is doing more than outsourcing American Jobs
Gateway is moving to India
and my cousin in Jamaica can call me all the time
because she can call America all the time
she has to be able to call
to persuade you
to pay your credit card bill
all the mixed babies
are redefining the idea
of borders
and what a Swede looks like
and what the child of a WASP looks like
or what friends he may or may not choose to have sushi with
or play hardcore unforgiving
scrabble
(any takers Mr. Mali?)
and I love my life in New York
even when I hate it
I would hate to be hating my life
without knowing I have the details of New York to complain about
I just need a little repreive for "me and my lover"
to "make love on Wednesdays" (digital art, Towkwase Dyson)
kisses from the lobby of the hotel with smallest shower I have ever seen,
Staceyann