On 27 Years and Polite Company

I envied him most especially. the little african boy with the charcoal gray and fuschia trimmed two piece starter™ sweatsuit, hopping about madly on the metro’s tiled floor, little dreadlocks flapping along to the rhythm. he couldn’t have been older than 4 (couldn’t have been), and I? damn near 7 times his age, now that this date had made it official. he screamed and gestured wildly as the greenline, bound for shaw-howard and points beyond, finally arrived, to carry my tardy ass to the birthday party being prepared (with alacrity) in my absence.

I hurriedly trekked home to love and an evening of friendly faces. home being a funny word for it, being that my bed is elsewhere, and my birthplace another, but my heart, well, that’s where it resides.

so I hurried. and the evening, well, wonderful is only one word, and the up and down, from no people for the first few hours, to two for another 60 minutes, to the sudden swell of 30 close friends and friends of friends, is probably best described with several. maddening. depressing, at first. elation. rapture. joy. cool. delightful. exciting. comfortable. and most importantly (and for the benefit of anthony’s favorite reader), sexy.

thank you. thanks to my friends, for coming, getting along with each other, and only making a little bit of fun of the massive number of white candles that oppressed my chocolate cake. thanks to my parents, for giving me this day to call my own. my sisters for always being there to remind me how glad I am that I left home. my boss for not coming to the party. and finally, thank you, baby. you made my day.

happy belated birthday to me.

Sweetheart, Goodnight

drenched in the dim light of the bustling images on the omnipresent screen, she slept. I laughed aloud repeatedly at the rerun, hoping she wouldn’t awaken, and between my buffoonish guffaws I turned and stared at her fixed and closed eyelids (just looking) as I watched her collect the covers over on her side. she used but a small corner of them, but miserly horded the lot anyway, as if somehow to punish me for not joining her. sooner.

Fuck a Perm

fuck law school. fuck my job, my roommates and sprint pcs. fuck b.e.t. fuck critics of b.e.t. who aren’t even fuckin’ black. fuck essentialist notions of blackness. fuck copycats. fuck dreadlocks. fuck stupidity, bullshit and selfishness. fuck weird girls and fuck plagiarism. fuck mayor williams. fuck verizon and fuck bank of america. fuck 65.207.0.#. fuck 205.247.35.#, too. fuck exes. fuck american idol, fuck mr. personality…matter of fact, fuck reality tv, reality movies, and reality all around. fuck living in a fantasy. fuck charles and ray eames. fuck being the “black” anything. fuck the police. fuck being different for no good goddamn reason. fuck being just like everyone else. fuck dichotomies and duality. fuck yin, and muthafuck a yang, too. fuck both sides of the coin. fuck art with a capital a. fuck filth. fuck jim crow.

fuck president bush up his fuckin’ ass. fuck iraq. fuck iraqi most wanted playing cards, and fuck the moron that invented them. fuck the new graphics every network created for the war, and while you are at it, fuck the networks. fuck jingoism. fuck the abc/tnt/espn troika for fuckin’ with the nba playoffs so regular people can’t watch any goddamn games if they don’t have cable. fuck lazy fuckers. fuck the sacramento kings. fuck tim duncan. fuck jay-z, ja rule, nelly, celine dion, 50 cent, erykah badu, kelly clarkson and clay aiken. fuck the new black. fuck fantasy sports leagues. fuck shitty websites. fuck self-proclaimed creative types. fuck my landlord and my boss and fuck massa. fuck scalia, thomas, and rehnquist.

fuck the bad economy. fuck the digital millennium copyright act and the sonny bono copyright extension act. fuck dial-up. fuck allergies. fuck bean sprouts. fuck tuna fish and all other canned meat products. fuck spam. fuck spam. fuck spam. fuck penis enlargements, secret nigerian financial scams, and unsolicited pornography. fuck tellin’ em’ why you mad, son. fuck overbearing people. fuck suffocation. fuck immediately. fuck early. fuck often. fuck this, fuck that and fuck you.

and most importantly, fuck haters.

Tryin’ To Get A Clutch

so this is the song we play. here is our dance. you look at me, innocent as a new lamb entering the world. tell me you love me. kiss me goodbye. hang up the phone. then you scribble some little angry remark and post it. and I? I look up at you and smile ever so sweetly as you mill about the room, or eat the sandwich that I, for the hunger of my love, rescued from the jaws of lame co-workers, and its my turn to hammer away at the keys like liberace on speed, playing out my angry tune as retort. they say that call and response is a fundamental part of black music, it’s at the root of who we are as products both of africa and this “new” world [thank you, mr. baraka.]. who knew it would pervade our love making as much as it does our ass shaking? (of course you know, I took liberties with that last sentence…parallelism above all things, mi amigo…I never met a trope or a scheme I didn’t like)

The Hotness

would that I could write on command, like so many wannabe starlets can call forth a deluge of tears on a whim for the delight of the ad and the cinematographer. alas. I have held back my words and thoughts and poorly strung together phrases for long enough, however, so I now feel compelled to hammer out some few simple words here on this rickety keyboard, the one with the “a” softly disappearing into the wilderness. yet and still, though, I have nothing of worth nor interest to say. shame. It’s not as though nothing has happened in my life — looking back, the tumult of the past few weeks has overwhelmed me. it’s just that I have no way of cribbing all those experiences, the life and meat and blood of the world, into something palatable for the devouring. something all of you out there can digest with ease and alacrity. alas. give me time, though. I am working on it. furiously.

The Circumference of Your Activity

12:37 AM. so I sat next to her in what we politely call a bed, through this day of snow and cynicism, these final moments of the month dedicated both in antiquity and by the current administration to the god of war, and felt easily more alone that I had ever felt since before we were together. and like the naive little fool I am, I told her so, and she got more distant. good response, I thought, that should help the problem. I only barely stopped myself from saying those very words. instead, and wisely, I too quieted myself and chose a spot in the goosebumped ceiling to stare at with varying intensity until something else was said. preferably by someone other than myself. eventually it worked its way out into the increasingly colder air that trapped us in The Light Blue Comforter That Martha Would Disapprove Of. “I feel bad,” she said quietly, half to me and half to the pillow, “and I don’t know what I can do about it.” simple acknowledgement of my feelings. validation. even just some idea that that I have been heard. that she was still alive. a fucking nonverbal cue. anything. finally receiving this, well, it was at least a start. even if it did take a half an hour.

so why am I sitting here typing alone whilst she reads downstairs?


*sigh* I wish I had more to say than that, but this weekend–no, more specifically, this day–has been one of myriad ups and downs. pushing and pulling. pots and kettles. plus no one has visited my page today. not even my girlfriend. for the non-narcissists out there, I forgive you for failing to understand why one may be somewhat, oh, how to put it, well, wounded really, by such a thing as the lack of random people to fall ever so consistently into my rabbithole of a site. its not your [the non-narcissists] fault, really, you don’t need the constant attention we self-absorbed millions require. scratch that. make it billions.

of course, all this ranting and raving is most likely a manifestation of my own profound neediness, and the lack of reassurance from within or without is guiding my hand as a type each pixelated pontification. but whatever. it could just as easily be a lack of food that is causing this ridiculous emotional harangueing. so fuck it…I am going to go get a butterfinger.

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?


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.

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.

1st-4-Life and LDP

Distance equals space. As God requires space, God creates it. As children of God, we do the same, creating our space or our distance as required, either tangibly, in terms of feet or miles, or intangibly, in terms of aloofness and silence. This is our connection to the heavens, not a book, not words, not stained glass and gold leaf. Our abilities, to create life, to create death, to make light, to create space where there is none; these are our imitations of the divine.So the space increases. Distance to protect us. Emptiness dividing our individual fullness. Born of us.

Actus Reus

I think I am going to write a post every day from class (when I go, shhhh, don’t tell my professors, por favore) just to maintain the legal aspect of this lil’ journal o’ mine. So, in honor of this idea, let’s talk about criminal law. I am a second year law student, let’s begin with that. It is usually not the case that a second year student is in criminal law, as that is a first year course, but due to the unique circumstances surrounding both my first year and my particular law school, I was required to take criminal law not in my first year but in my second. As a second year student, I am blessed with what I consider to be a singular opportunity to peer through a window of sorts onto the in-class minds and experiences of the first year students. And frankly, I feel for them. This professor, while she seems both an intelligent and engaging sort, clearly has no feel for the pacing and method required to teach the course. We are never where we are supposed to be in the course, and additionally, we very rarely are given a clear understanding for the core ideas at the root of criminal law. I am not aware if she has ever taught before, I will be sure to do some research to find out, but if I were to guess, I would suppose the negative.

Ok, you know what? Maybe I won’t write a post every day from class. The whole idea sounds boring. And I don’t think I would write anything particular interesting, unless I get especially catty and start making snide personal comments about the people and characters in my classes. And I don’t think that is particularly wise, for a variety of reasons. So Imma chill, m’kay?

Except for the taxi driver guy in our class. That never gets old.

Like sunlight sitting next to me
Her attention fixed on the front
Glowing with her growing understanding
White shirt, violet scarf, blue jeans
Dark hair, brown eyes, black boots
These fail to capture the wonder of the sun
Rays, yellow, and round aren’t words enough
To circumscribe its awesome glory

Malcolm X & Hors D’oeurves

Professor is workin’ it today. He has talked now for 15 straight minutes, and I think I have written down a total of 7 words. He just said he is going to work on our syllabus today. Yes, you are correct, sir, it is 3 weeks into the semester. Nice to see him taking interest in his job.This is my second class of the day. The first was a fascinating study in sleep deprivation and gentle mockery as well. My classmate (one of my absolute favs, though if she is reading this, please inform her that I truly despise her. And she takes up too much desk space.) made mention of the fact that she had taken an opportunity to visit the site of yours truly (yes, this very page!) over the weekend. She felt like she was intruding or something, like she was spying on my life. And she was, in a way. So here is my word, once more. For friends and associates, you may just want to avoid this page all together. Why? Because you are destined to fail to understand the most basic of all things blogadocious – the phrase that pays: “Sometimes a post is just a post.” It doesn’t have to mean anything deeper than the author’s exercise of his or her own mental conditioning, stretching themselves, reaching for a greater understanding of their own abilities. In short, fiction, baby. Dig?

And even knowledge of this is still not enough to avoid the reflex. Natural response to any online vitriol: “Is [he/she] talking about me?” Maybe. Maybe not. But does it help or hinder your life one way or the other? [note to self: practice what you preach]

That said, I was thoroughly flattered that she even read my page. I don’t know who does or doesn’t, or even that anyone does or doesn’t. So if you can stand to be all up in my business, than please, read on, black woman, read on.

And as we say in poker, ante up.– Warner Lawson

There are more things between heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.– Willie Shakespeare

I am so damned lost in this class. I think I am a 3L a year too early, I already am chillin’ all semester and buying beaucoup study aids at the end, to learn the subject for the exam. Not good. Indiscriminate blogging during class isn’t exactly helping things. I am feelin’ a jones to create, baby. I gotta get this monkey off my back. Man with the Golden Arm, baby. My professor is illustrating complex legal issues with Shoe comic strips. Do we look that simple minded? And does my professor really read Shoe on the regular? Does anyone?

By the by, Monya, lookin’ good, darlin’, as always. Love that green shirt on you. Ciao.

No Big Surprise

and this may shock you…but you think I haven’t noticed?

I am more saddened than shocked. It hit me hard, of course, but it wasn’t quite like the blast of cold that slaps you when you first jump into the lake in January…its like being in the water as it slowly turns to ice…my skin is numb at this point. the cold is burning, but very nearly comforting, in its own way. at least I am aware. sort of.

I was trying to understand what was keeping me from just being. one and one, dig? and I couldn’t, until you updated. the physical connection is a manifestation of the emotional and mental and spiritual, and obviously, something is not as it should be. I don’t know what. Its almost like you can’t relax, and neither can I. You and I are thinking too much. I think.


Go ahead. Play like you don’t care. Don’t return my calls until weeks later? Fine. Act like an ass because that bothers me? Sure. Just generally be aloof and pretend like you don’t give a damn? Cool. But don’t bitch and moan because you think you belong where you don’t. You were special in my life, I told you that, and though I continue to repeat to you how important you were and are to my personal growth, you insist on acting like a petulant child now that you have someone new to lean on. When I was in pain, I reached out to you, that should have showed you how much I trusted you and respected what you thought and your opinion. Most people, most women, value truth and honesty so highly precisely because its such a rare gem from men. Only you would rather I lie to you to protect your fragile ego than to be upfront with you about my feelings. You would rather be in the dark, but of course, I refuse to accomodate you. My fault. So you wanted to see yourself in these confines? Congrats. I hope it was worth it.

Hair Cuttery

Barbershop. Six black men, one black woman. Two barbers, and one half of the ownership present – the Van, but not the Frank. There is something I love about the barbershop…my grandfather was a barber, though I had only been to his shop once or twice, but something about the smell of Barbasol that always reminds me of him. The sound of clippers. The snikt-snip of the scissors. My grandfather could never cut my hair right, he wasn’t used to its particular and peculiar maelstrom of directions. Mr. Singleton, with his shaky hands, he did the best he could, but still, it was never quite right. After one bout with Mr. Singleton, I wore a hat all day in Mrs. Morgan’s class. Lemon, Mr. Singleton’s boy, well, he could cut anyone’s hair…buzzzzzzzzzz-buzzzzzzzzzz-snikt-snip-snikt…so yeah, today, I got a trim…my hair is still all wild, but now its tasteful at the sides. Like I have Adobe Photoshop™ Edges 4.0 for Flowbee™. Rico. Suave.