Sweetness, good day.
imprisoned by your sickness.
Heal and escape.
I implore you.
My love, go
Indulge in confections
For lying ill
Shall pallid make you
And so thin and without
Roundness you become.
I pray for you
And your health.
My sweetness.

– based on A Une Damoyselle Malade by Clement Marot

This, an assignment from my Copyright class, is one of the essential elements to a student’s understanding of the complex nature of intellectual property law. Unfortunately, I have no idea how. Because my ability to create a derivative work is soooo vital to my ability to act on it in court. No really.

My Feeble Attempt to Escape the White Supremacist Domination

some thoughts after getting through only the first two chapters of bell hook’s book, Black Looks: Race and Representation…mind you, these are only notes, so don’t take them for more than they are:

1. Why does the phrase “accepting diversity” sound so damn similar to “tolerating” the wondrous and shining beauty that is my people? I don’t want to be accepted. I don’t need your acceptance. Fuck you. Either deal with me or don’t, but I don’t have any interest in your feelings about it, nor in commending you for “accepting diversity.” You are the ones who must be forgiven, who must be accepted. You don’t ask the murderer who killed your parents for their acceptance of you and your kin, and you don’t care how they feel about things, all you want is them to keep their mouths shut on the way to the fucking chair. And that’s what each and every one of you are, a gang of fucking murderers, or the beneficiaries of that murderous nature. So you can take your diversity and your multiculturalism and shove it straight up your lily-white ass.

2. The black male is a tortured, broken body. Not a broken soul, mind you, but a body, so gnarled and torn from within and without, that what other expressions can we have other than that of pain or of the infliction of pain?

3. But then, when have death and desire not been directly and forever linked?

4. The eating of the blowfish, the Japanese fugu, poisonous if not served perfectly, is another example of this attempt (outside of white culture) of the attempt to defeat death by eating it. And what is the Other but chaos, the wild? Black culture represents chaos to white culture, in its unstructured (at least, to white systems of structure) ways, its rhythms, its cacophony of sound and sight. Chaos equals death. White attempts to subvert or otherwise envelope itself around that chaotic culture, in order to “understand” it and by understanding control it and protect itself from the death that culture represents, are but another example of what hooks called “Eating the Other.” [more on this later]

We Don’t Need Matching Pajamas

She snored. I watched
her take the night in
slowly and let it out in a
grunt, curled up tight
against the outside.
Her stomach empty this
evening, unfulfilled
by the books
and words and learning
she hungered for. She
craved thought more
than air, and in the
company of most men,
she damn near asphyxiated
from lack of both. And so
like the night she
exhaled I breathed her in.

Falun Dafa is Good

the futility of my resistance to the current state of affairs was making itself aware to me more and more with each newborn minute that this bloody meeting dragged on. I continuously fail to see why I must need be included in every discussion that is even tangentially related to that damned website, and why my fridays are a mush of nonsense, 2 hour lunches in the peeps room, and this 1+ hour block of time we mockingly (or at least for me, mockingly) call a “meeting.”

and in the pantheon of evil corporations, on the frieze up above the columns, add, next to the smiling face of mickey mouse and directly to the left of the bank of america logo, the computer-generated face of claire. that sprint pcs bitch. I don’t think I possess quite enough ire, enough pure bile, with which to fairly illustrate my hatred of sprint right now. their incompetence infested stores. service which can best be described as “can you hear me now? what? huh? @#&*! phone…” rude simpletons posing as gainfully employed workers. rip-offs and add-ons galore. its like a pyramid scam turned into a major corporation. and currently (and assuredly, for little longer) I am the scammee, and not the scammer. and I am so cool on that.

thoughts drift back to her. I know as I write these words I do so with the full knowledge she will devour every last one of them, though I am not clear as to what exactly I plan to gain out of this awareness, and my actions thereupon. she must know how I think of her, how my heart is hers, fully, completely, but even so she knows but does not know. thinks but does not believe it.

I am going home now. well, not now, as I am typing this, I am going to finish eating a few more slices of pizza, then I will pack my belongings and get moving like the wayward soul I am. for though I love her madly, I shall not be taken for granted. and that’s how I feel right now – completely taken for granted. its not important whether its true or not, its only important that I do feel that way. so its far better for me to take my happy black ass home, and be irate there, than to stay here and grow increasingly agitated and angry. yeah, I am hella sensitive, I know, but either you deal with it or you don’t. I think I just needed more than you were willing to give this evening. and I miss my own bed. my own walls. I wanted you to share them with me, but I don’t know, there are times I don’t want to have to remind you of our plans, when I don’t want to feel like the little kid tugging at his mama’s sleeve. “but you said…” so now its just me and comrade smirnoff. and we are making a go of it. maybe tomorrow night, you and I?

Music for Young Norwegians


this weekend was way too much to
write. so welcome to a visual
montage of the whole sordid affair.

guess who.

kramers books

& afterwards

and of course. pete. for now.

the script. [long story]

scene 3

no, really, the ass is love.


butterfly mcqueen action figure


and mortimer.

mt. kilimanjaro? who knows…


i have no idea who this is.


[long long long story. don’t ask.]

oh, and did I mention, it snowed?

back to beltsville.

ok, this shit really happened.

its a long story, but I assure you, its
utter juvenile foolishness

sho nuff, its the girl.

never get enough of this animation

and I love her. oh look, its an

sadly, though, life is mad fucking
real. dot com. and its back to the

Photo Flash Focus Record

there is so much I want to say, but I swore to myself that I wouldn’t put it here. that from now on, I will say whatever I have to say to your face, and damn the consequences. that I am tired of hiding in this forum.

[why do I want to call zoe “zoroastrianism” everytime I hear her name? problems.]

now if someone can just get the almighty zen afro to bring her journal back, well, then we would be cookin’ with gas, baby.

ps. I miss getting shout outs. do I need to change the name of them?


My great-great-grandmother, Mamie, lived up until my senior year of high school. For the length of the time we shared the earth, she lived in a house down on 21 with a man I have always known only as “Jim”, who I always assumed to be my great uncle. Mamie died in 1995, and following that, Jim lived by himself for a few years, moving from the rickety old vine infested shack the two had shared into a single-wide just adjacent, which was subsequently adjoined by a thicket of blackberry bushes, but soon age and illness took the better of him, and he moved in with my mother. Into my room.Cancer is the second leading cause of death in the United States. Half of all men and one-third of all women in the US will develop cancer during their lifetimes.American Cancer Society

I finally returned my mother’s call today, she says she was only just checking up on me, and saying hello…but my mother, bless her heart, has a preternatural ability to call when my chakras are out of balance. So small talk, bullshit, blah blah…and then she unleashes Cerebus. “Jim is going into surgery soon.” My reply: “Why?” Her’s: “Well, didn’t I tell you? They found out that Jim has cancer.”

My family breaks down into two classes of terminal illness. In this way, the two clans possess an inner order, through death, which they fail to achieve within their behaviors. My father’s side is Coronary Heart Disease (CHD). My mother’s kin is best known for the Big C. My grandmother, grandfather, great-grandmother, and great-grandfather all suffered its effects, and now, its getting Jim too.

Sorry to go on about it…I don’t, I mean, I can’t really think of what to say, or to do, other than write and get my feelings out of my system somehow. I guess I just need a friend right now. A companion other than this webpage.


Bank of America is the worst damn corporate entity in the free world. Yes, worse than Verizon. More evil than Disney. Also, slightly not as good as the Tic Tock liquor store in Hyattsville.


Sharpies™ are my favorite markers
Brown and blue and red and darker
They really are the best of pens
Thick or thin, it just depends
They’re permanent and oh so black
With a stench Crayolas™ lack
They scribble on near anything
They’re good for art, or doodling
Thank you Sanford™ for this gift
Your felt tip’s swell and nontoxic
And though they may seep through the page
Get a Sharpie™, they’re all the rage.

Shit Occurs When I Shift My Words

Gather round, all my children, and I will share with you these too-oft taught lessons of life, love and loss.

So have I learned…Keep your heart to yourself, guard it against all new would-be conquerors. Protected from the barbarians at the gates, you will come to no harm. Open these city walls to the invaders, and suffer at the hands of their cruel and senseless torments.


I sit in class, and failing to prepare, I write and write and write. And so I think, perhaps, this is the life for me, this is my direction, this is what I need to be doing. I only LOOK like I am taking notes, when instead I am crafting responses to Sadia, or composing some cliched poetry, or designing a webpage of some sort. Why again am I in law school?


Lo, a small, darkish nightingale lit upon my shoulder, and quietly, I heard what seemed a whistled message in my left ear. “I am hungry, feed me,” demanded the Bird, and so, being hungry myself, I understood this creature’s need, and proceeded to share all I had with it. And lustily did it devour my meal, every morsel and piece, even the crumbs, completely. Finishing that, the waifish warbler proceeded to gnaw upon my fingers as well and so, I drew back, fearful of becoming unable to pursue my chosen craft, and find my fortune, for lack of digits with which to grasp a pen and scribble my tired lines out each eve. Seeing the fear and hunger in my eyes, the Bird recoiled as well, and having fed so fully upon myself and my spread, and finding newfound strength welling up within itself, declared loudly, “Don’t be so self-centered, no one wanted to eat you, silly…and besides, I was never really all that hungry anyway. In fact, I wasn’t even talking to you.” And off it went.

For Sha

I think if patient I could be
a silent mouse
a quiet tree
if I could firm my mouth and shut
oh how happy we could be
but I cannot
my innermost still marshals on
to fight the war within and out
my solemn pump resists the day
the changing of the tides
the timid tremble of your tears
the treble of your lies
me. 11-19-2001