23 1 / 2014

"A colored man floats down out of the sky blowing a saxophone, and below him, in the space between two buildings, a girl talks earnestly to a man in a straw hat. He touches her lip to remove a bit of something there. Suddenly she is quiet. He tilts her chin up. They stand there. Her grip on her purse slackens and her neck makes a nice curve. The man puts his hand on the stone wall above her head. By the way his jaw moves and the turn of his head I know he has a golden tongue. The sun sneaks in the alley behind them. It makes a pretty picture on its way down."

Morrison, Toni. Jazz. 1993.

pg. 8

09 1 / 2014

"He smiled and hug me to him. [He] asked me if I wanted to go back to his apartment. I whispered yes and kissed him softly on the ear. I wanted him to fuck me. This thought surprised me, then made itself at home. I wanted him to bury himself inside me and rock-and-roll me and jazz me and moan and turn me blue and aquamarine and sink and sink and light me up from the inside. I wanted to turn him out, ruin him, make him forget all the women he ever knew before me."

Youngblood, Shay. Black Girl in Paris. 2000.

pg.162

09 1 / 2014

"He was the sound of a slow train leaving, a boat rocking in a stormy port, like something that could take you away or bring you home again."

Youngblood, Shay. Black Girl in Paris. 2000.

pg.141

09 1 / 2014

"A bomb can kill you instantly, love can make you wish you were dead."

Youngblood, Shay. Black Girl in Paris. 2000. 

pg.7

09 1 / 2014

Hi, ya’ll.

I’m back :)

29 12 / 2012

"Wind whipped the tips of our ears and stole a plastic bag right out of Manny’s hand. He thought it was a sign and fished through our supplies until he pulled out a tight, fat roll of twine and three black plastic bags. We made kits: trash bags on strings. We ran, slipped, the knees of our dungarees all grass stained, we got up, ran, choked ourselves half to death with laughter, but we found speed, and our trash kits soared. We flew for an hour or so, until daylight fully buried itself into night and all the light sank back, except for the stars and toenail clipping of moon, and the kites disappeared, black on blackness. That’s when we let go, and our trash kites really soared —up and away, heavenward, like prayers, our hearts chasing after."

Torres, Justin. We the Animals. 2011. (p52)

28 12 / 2012

"Heaven is a room without air,
tinier than you would expect.
Their harbors summarily discarded,
souls are smashed upon souls,
writhing, lit neon with overwhelms of holy.
Here names, crimes, and choices
are forgotten. There is only one door,
and the harried souls hurtle through,
bargain for space, pulse gleefully.
The fickle, traitorous heart is a need
no one misses. In heaven,
they keep one beating
in a cage, purely for show."

Smith, Patricia. Teahouse of the Almighty. Excerpted from “Boy Dies, Girlfriend Gets His Heart.”

28 12 / 2012

"

Beneath the door, I could practically see
the wretched slither of tobacco and English Leather.
Hiding on the other side, I heard Mama giggle
through clenched teeth, which meant potential
husband sitting spitshined on our corduroy couch.
The needle hit that first groove and I wondered
why my mama had chose the blues,
wrong, Friday-angled, when it was hope
she needed. I pressed my ear against the door,
heard dual damp panting, the Murphy bed squeal,
the occasional directive,
the sexless clink of jelly jar glasses.

What drove me to listen on those nights
when my mother let that fragrant man in,
banished me to the back of the apartment,
pretended she could shine above hurting?
I’d rest my ear against the cool wood all night
as she flipped through the 45s—
looking for Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder,
somebody blind this time,
something crawling on this knees toward love.

"

Smith, Patricia. Teahouse of the Almighty. “Listening at the Door” (poem).

27 12 / 2012

Though vastly devoid of color, save for Emily Raboteau and Chinelo Okparanta, it’s still an interesting list of books and authors. Nice to see Lou Howey’s “Wool” mentioned. My book club met him at Miami Book Fair International. The story behind his novel is very impressive.

27 12 / 2012

"Listen, if you choose to believe nothing else that transpires here, believe this: your body does not have a soul; your soul has a body, and souls never, ever die."

McFadden, Bernice L; Gathering of Waters. 2012