Archive for the ‘randoms’ Category


October 10, 2011

i don’t know why i don’t post more music, even though i enjoy writing about it.  and in case anyone cared, there will be an ode to sizzla’s use of metaphor sometime soon. oh, yes, there will be. (not discounting his raging homophobia and other problematics).

anyway, loving. this. below. some monday feist for you & i.

How not to write a love poem

July 17, 2011

“Only the shallow know themselves.” Oscar Wilde.

First, you need an absence of love—or anything close to it. Second, you need to resist the fact that this is in fact, your reality.

I tried to write a love poem about someone, this week and failed. Also, I’m not even sure that I’m all that good at love poetry. There really wasn’t any love to speak of. There were postulations, fictive projections of what I wanted to see taking place. And more than enough stretches of credibility: well, what really happened then was this and this is what it means. Denying and or reinscribing one’s reality is a hard habit to break. I am working on paring down my penchant for over-analysis and taking what people say as the gospel—making them Christ and Allah (or whomsoever) of their own self spaces.

If people say they are simple, I’ll let them be. How dare I doubt that and give myself the extra work of deciphering what they really mean or what their true intentions are because I suspect there are other things underneath the surface. (There usually always is though and people are rarely as simple as they make themselves out to be, aren’t they?) and this leaves one in a semi-constant state of looking over one’s shoulder (or theirs), constantly on the look-out for an abyss, some darkness, some cruel consternation that you know is hiding just behind their irises.

on libra-ness

June 9, 2011

One of the things that’s hard for Libras to accept is that not everyone can live up to their expectations. Libras feel that everyone should be like them: kind, generous, and diplomatic. Until, of course, the scales are tipped in the other direction; then you’ve got problems with Libra’s dark side: mean, resentful, frivolous, and indecisive. –from Black Love Signs, by Thelma Balfour

I’ve been meeting Virgos back to back. Apparently, we’re a terrible match astrologically but these ones seem to love being entranced with the Libra vibes. Seemingly.

I am,

April 26, 2011

obviously a rightee.

Text: “I am the left brain. I am a scientist. A mathematician. I love the familiar. I categorize. I am accurate. Linear. Analytical. Strategic. I am practical. Always in control. A master of words and language. Realistic. I calculate equations and play with numbers. I am order. I am logic. I know exactly who I am.

I am the right brain. I am creativity. A free spirit. I am passion. Yearning. Sensuality. I am the sound of roaring laughter. I am taste. The feeling of sand beneath bare feet. I am movement. Vivid colors. I am the urge to paint on an empty canvas. I am boundless imagination. Art. Poetry. I sense. I feel. I am everything I wanted to be.”    

on language…

March 19, 2011

A friend’s status on facebook today asked: “When a woman calls you ‘Hoss’…is that a good or bad thing?” Out of five responses thus far, the first one said: “it means she is a lesbian.” See how language can be gender coded? And how the stringently policed lines of gender, performance, and sexuality and where these intersect with what folks say, can get fraught with people’s myopia? Because “hoss” is a thing men say—allegedly; a woman employing a “masculine” slang must get carded as masculine-like, therefore must = lesbian. Linear enough for you? O, those things we say. Le sigh.

I’ve come to the conclusion,

March 4, 2011

that when people say, “God is a Trini” — it’s not so much bombastic Trinidadianness than, a prayer. Just another affirmation, like “God is good.” It’s a hope and a prayer — a spiritual wishbone split down its center, that we’d like to believe someone up there hears.

February 21, 2011

“.. . . . . . . . . . . .

Warm hands pressed

onto the soft slick

of bare flesh,

and me thinking, how to cull

a piece of this

     So I slice clean,

leave no scars. Fold the skin,

tuck it away.

     Retrieve. Open. Remember.”

— from a poem of mine about something like love. Or memory. Or both.

The Jacket

January 29, 2011

At my friend’s house lime before Christmas, this Australian guy (who I’d never met before) offered to give me his jacket to wear when I left because it was really cold that night. Everyone limed and talked ’til late, ate curry chicken, aloo, channa, and rice laced with drops of pepper sauce and kuchela ’til we were full; drank rum, beer and spiked sorrel.

It wasn’t a large lime but it was warm on the inside and cozy and I enjoyed chatting with the people who were there. So I left with the jacket—a conch shell stashed in one of the pockets and a camera in the other. Upon loaning the jacket and hearing that I dabbled in writing, I was challenged by the owner to eventually write a poem in exchange for the borrow—about all three: his jacket, the shell & the camera.

The jacket has been returned.

The last time I saw it, a pugnacious pug was furiously humping the jacket’s sleeve on my friend’s couch.

This is poem:

The Jacket

is alone.
Cloying need
for baptism by sweat
or rain, or slop
sprayed from a car’s tire.

The jacket–
would rather be useful.
Wants to envelope
its owner–a great barrier reef
on skin, fending off the elements.

Is pregnant with conch
and camera, holds secrets
inside folds. Memories forgotten
in dark corners of pockets.

I am a heap
on the carpet. A green
of olives maw
opening underfoot.

The pug mounts me frantically.

You Make Me Wanna—

December 6, 2010


Laura Marling.

I just love this song by her below (and this version especially) and it always makes me beautifully sombre and sorrowful (if that makes sense), for some reason. Not because I especially love England, nor have I lived there myself to feel the exact same way–but I do feel as though anyone who is a transplant from anywhere, might connect with the sentiments inside this song–no matter where you are from. 

It also made me hark back to Samuel Selvon’s The Lonely Londoners (which I re-read recently) and Moses Aloetta contemplating:

What it is that a city have, that any place in the world have, that you get so much to like it you wouldn’t leave it for anywhere else? What it is that would keep men although by and large, in truth and in fact, they catching their royal to make a living, staying in a cramp-up room where you have to do everything–sleep, eat, dress, wash, cook, live. Why it is, that although they grumble about it all the time, curse the people, curse the government, say all kind of thing about this and that, why it is, that in the end, everyone cagey about saying outright that if the chance come they will go back to them green islands in the sun?

 Why indeed?

oh hell yeah.

November 14, 2010

[actually i’m not that bad ass. le sigh. but in my head i like to think i am.]

Image cred: seen on the afro-punk tumblr.