I Notice

I notice you walking, thinking, learning, loving, reading, investigating, laughing, crying, living, giving, teaching, working, creating. I notice you challenging the world, even when the world collapses itself on you. I notice you striving, pushing, going on forward. That is what freedom fighters do. I notice you. I have also noticed that it isn’t at all easy to be who you are. The latina woman, often confused to be African-American, or not really latina, the woman with the “funny” accent, who gets asked, "Where are you from?", the nappy ‘fro wearer, growing locks, really Dominican. The dominican, latina woman, from Hunts Point Avenue, in the Bronx, New York. Schooled by life, hardships, experiences and "Bingo"!, feminist thought, gender and sexuality and patriarchal lingo. I notice the fire inside you. I notice the revolutionary spirit in the way you accessorize, the personal as political. You are simple, the symbol of love, personified in the greatest of literary manuscripts. I notice the complexities of feminist thought, gender and sexuality being a part of your being. I notice you being hard on yourself, when you fear your own power! It is a dangerous thing to imagine potential exponentially. I have noticed. You are a difference maker, critical thinker, untapped artist, secret chef, endowed author, liver of life and future profesora! Know this. In noticing you, I take notice of myself!

Oeuvre #1

Closed meditation sessions offer explanations from the inner depths of my brainchild. I have fostered the beginnings of something wonderful here. Here are the results of the daydream. I write in the lab, gladly exercising the gift of abstractness. The fact of blackness has a deep and profound grip on my life. I am the walker of memories, the builder of dreams, the author of prose, the naked man who stands fully clothed in clothes. I am the beautiful song of songs. I am an existential disciple of life experiences. I have sent love poems through the air. I have sent other poems to breathe for themselves. I am the brilliant mind. I have painted lilacs on pages and scripted magnificent things on the walls of books. There are lovely things to be imagined. Other things are most ugly, some most beautiful, mostly wonderful, mostly human. These fingers are singers. They compose songs. They compose art like Mozart. I compose smart...mentally gifted. These are the beginnings of smiles, bright like many moons. I can count my destiny on five hands, I have two. There are too many ideas to write down in a single session. My obsession is introspection. I know me better than I know myself. I am the conflicted, the addicted, the gifted. Excuse me, I don’t have tolerance. I have patience. Until we meet again, this shall be continued. I write in the lab, it never closes. My mind is always open 24/7. I stretch my back and crack my knuckles. I will be back before the next metaphor.

Nina Simone's "Feeling Good"

(Non)Basic Ruminations

Maybe these ruminations aren't so basic. I mean. On a day to day basis, one should see the things I am faced with. Sometimes I just embrace it. No shoulders to lean on. No crutches. No braces. Ever had a bad taste in your mouth and wished you never tasted it? Or had a bad memory or situation and wanted to erase it? What about seeing a familiar face and trying to place it? Or you can remember the name but the face remains faceless? Ain't no secret, I am living in a world full of racists. They look at my race and face and declare my existence is pointless. Baseless. I have no class and my ass is tasteless. Worthless. Why live when you have no destination or purpose? Sometimes you start believing the non-sense and start to doubt what your own true worth is. I am tired of the speculation on the surface. I am going to the core with it.......(tbc)

latin honors

cum laude. always had a best semester. i like to play with words, i am a text molester. summa cum soon. this jerkin got my hand numb. im over my own bighead with my grad school magnum!

John Coltrane's "Naima"

Untitled: #222 (wrote in sub square applestore)

I'm tired. I haven't been inspired to write anything new for a long time. Even when I get inspiration, it's the wrong time. I have books with pages, with nakedness in the margins. They are waiting to be clothed with the best breaststrokes. I am the gifted child whose penmanship has been shipwrecked on the island of my own thoughts. Anchored in blue remnants of the sky. My hands are wading in ink. Waiting. I'm painting pictures, I think? I think! Two different statements, stating abatements of my impatience!