Love Thyself

Two-fifty, two hundred, two-fifty again.

I’ve struggled with my weight most of my adult life.

Either I’m stuffing my face with everything in the place, or I’m working out all day every day, trying to get thin.

But I know now I must love the skin that I’m in. Whatever that is.

I love my belly, regardless if it’s stretch-marked with rolls like Buddha, or a compact baby six pack.

 I love my thighs, whether they be wondrous or of the thunderous variety.

I love my calves, be they dandelion-thin or bulky like watermelons; my arms, be they string beans or Christmas hams; and my chest in all its asymmetric mess.

I love my glutes, whether they be nonexistent or all that and then some.

I love my hair, be it curly, kinky, wavy, straight, blonde, red, or black.

I love my too-big-for-my-frame feet, my bowed legs, and my trick knee.

I now see it matters not how much I lift or how many miles I run, so long as I persist to be cool with myself, free to be me in all my beautiful glory.

So, if you feel seen and know what I mean, then repeat after me:

I love myself.

Older

Hair thinning, graying,

Pot-bellied, knees arthritic,

Man, I’m getting old.

Fire of Will

Through the fire and flames,

Through the bruises and pain,

Through the suffering and the shame,

I will step up my game and rise again and again.

You will bear witness to my persistence.

No matter the odds,

I will face any challenge

and win the fight,

As long as the light within shines bright.

On Words

When wielded wisely, words can heal, surprise, and make our spirits rise. But they can be misused to abuse,

Spread lies, sow strife, or end a life;

They can cut like a knife and lay a fellow low,

Cast a bring light, or throw us into an infinite night;

Be neat, sweet, petite, and knock us off our feet.

Or lead to our defeat.

They can be mean, obscene, or used to spread fake news via memes on our computer screens.

They can give shape to our dreams or be the stuff of nightmares.

Their power can leave us staring, glaring, or swearing.

We may lose sleep over them,

Wondering if the price we pay for saying them is too steep.

But if they came cheap and didn’t matter, how worse would things get?

Any nitwit can get in a snit and spit whatever shit they like on social media and be the focal point of attention,

Racking up likes, retweets, and mentions;

All because they have an inclination for condemnation,

A penchant for prose pugilism that leaves decency, civility, and the whole of humanity

Battered and bruised with every word they spew.

Regardless of what some may think,

Words aren’t the final refuse of the weak.

Ultimately, it’s up to each of us to choose the words we use or abuse.

And while this may not be news, it bears repeating.

Though we may be seething, we must

Think before speaking.       

Can You Hear Me Now

When each sentence is a sentence to oratory purgatory,

There’s no violence like silence.

When I speak a word and go unheard,

When my every utterance is met with, “Can you speak more clearly?”

It’s enough to drive me insane.

“Can you hear me now?” has become my go-to refrain.

I feel less than,

My cheeks flushed with heat,

When I’m asked to repeat my words

Again and again.

Each syllable is a subliminal criminal,

A thief of time and energy,

Making communication shallow and banal, hollow so you can follow what I’m saying.

Speaking is like flaying myself, filling me with lethargy as I wait to see if you can hear me. 

I fear anywhere the background volume is above a whisper,

Lest my voice disappear,

Engulfed in the whir of the crowd.

It’s frustrating, infuriating, mentally deteriorating

Wondering if the other is hearing what I’m saying.

So:

Can you hear me now?   

TEN/SJS and Me

I was six when I had my first case of Toxic Epidermal Necrolysis/Stevens-Johnson Syndrome.

That’s quite a mouthful and I’m doubtful you’ll remember it or stick around long enough for me to explain it if I type it all out, so let’s just call it TEN/SJS, and say it was a whole lot of pain.

To start with, I don’t mean to bitch but to educate so you avoid my fate.

I’d just started first grade at an elementary school in Detroit that will remain nameless,

But is far from blameless.

My class went to the library for the time and this was the scene of the Crime,

Where my tale begins.

A kid next to me kicked me under our table, and I kicked him back,

And that’s when the librarian snapped and kicked my ass;

He bashed my head into one of the shelves and then made me stand up for the rest of the period.

The force of the blow caused me to black it out, but luckily—or not;

You be he judge.

During the police investigation, we learned this wasn’t his first act of aggression.

A neighbor girl saw what he’d done to me.

I’m happy to confess they removed him from the profession.

The week after the assault, I began having seizures and this bought my childhood life of leisure to an end.

After an EEG, they diagnosed me with epilepsy, and further tests revealed a cystic mass where my head had been bashed.

The week before I was scheduled for brain surgery, I got strep throat;

They put me on penicillin, despite a family history of allergies to it.

“Don’t worry,” they said. “He’ll be fine.”

I don’t mean to whine, but I wasn’t, am not, and still have an axe to grind.

I developed flu-like symptoms, a red, blotchy rash;

And soon my life was hanging by a thread.

Week after week, my parents took me to the doctors;

I grew weaker and weaker,

My fever soaring higher and higher.

Finally, when I hit 103,

my parents took me to Children’s Hospital.

By then I was whisper-thin,

Mouth covered in fever blisters.

They diagnosed me with SJS/TEN on the spot,

Packed me with ice,

And my heart stopped.

Forget what you’ve read about near death experiences;

There were no pearly gates or tunnel of light.

Instead, there was just me floating in a sea of darkness,

Empty all around like a tomb or the womb.

No sound until they shocked me,

Each time only regaining sight long enough to stare up into the bright lights of the triage room.

I’ll spare you the rigmarole of the blow-by-blow.

What I want you to know is this:

SJS/TEN is no joke.

I’ve been poked and prodded more times anyone ought to,

And my parents nearly went broke keeping me alive.

I lost over eighty percent of my skin,

Lay comatose for six months,

And then had to learn how to walk and talk again.

There’s more to my tale,

But I won’t bore you with descriptions of the hell

I’ve lived through.

Just know:

Penicillin allergies aren’t anything to fuck with.

Play with Words

Much has been said about what writers should feed their head—

Mostly authors who are dead—

If they want to make that bread.

Instead, write what you like

And tell the critics to take a hike.

Don’t write to trends because they’ll end before you even begin;

Don’t groan.

Set ones of your own.

Even if it never pays,

Write anyway.

Pay no heed to those who say you need to do x, y, and z to be a “real” writer.

Why be a follower when you can lead?

Whether an all-nighter or nail-biter,

Write in whatever fashion fills you with passion

And keeps your fingers mashing.

Whether absurd or a little disturbed,

Fuck what you heard and play with words.

I did not stutter or mean to make you shudder

With that curse in my last verse.

But it was a gut check for what comes next.

Be ye a devotee of Bradbury, Lovecraft, Faulkner, Hemingway, Fitzgerald,

Tolkien;

Or a fan of Rowling or King,

Play with your words until they sing,

Until they shine like the One Ring.

Make love to your prose

Until the juices flow

 And curls your toes.

Hear what I say,

You needn’t write every day.

But when you do:

Make sure you slay.

Give it all your heart and finish what you start.

Know the world needs your words,

No matter what anyone may say to the contrary.

When words have you flummoxed as though you’re locked in a box with a bunch of crocs,

Or you feel as though you’re tall as a mouse and there’s a pox on your house,

Know your quandary is very ordinary.

Persistence is the word;

Quitting’s for the birds.

Fuck what you heard

And play with words.

BLM

Black lives matter.

That this must be said, as white cops continue to beat and batter brown and Black bodies, piling up the dead of the latter, makes my heart shatter.

And that’s why I’ll always say:

Black lives matter.

You can go screw with your, “All lives matter.” palaver. 

Until unarmed whites suffer the same plights and are killed at the same disproportionate numbers;

Until the media uses said dead as fodder for their reports, combing through their existence for any retort as to how this homicide was justified; because, despite the cops’ insistence that they feared for their lives, it’s plain as day that they lied,

Until the deaths of your brethren are used to divide and force us to pick a side between cops and criminals, a false dichotomy,

Until your race is constantly demonized and assumed the enemy,

Until you instinctively freeze when you see a police car, wondering if your name will be added to the list of the slain,

Until people have become numb to your pain and hand down yet another acquittal, then don’t be so little and belittle us with this insane refrain.

It’s beyond lame and takes the focus off who’s to blame.

As long as cops continue looking at us askew because of our hue, this will continue to be an issue.

As long as they keep playing god, slaying anyone Black or brown who even looks at them odd, then I will continue saying:

Black lives matter!

Phoenix

To all those contemplating suicide,

In this darkest of nights, know the world needs your lights.

I beg you, resist.

Too much blood has been shed from the wrists of those who did not Persist.

When all seems lost again, remember within you is the ember of a Hero: a phoenix waiting to be born anew.

Your head may be bloodied, but it is unbowed.

You are endowed with a warrior spirit.

Pound for pound you’re the toughest around.

What’s that sound?

Can you hear it?

It’s all the things you’ve left unsaid, the voice at the back of your Head telling you to get off the ground.

You aren’t dead yet.

You’re a phoenix, a titan, so keep fighting.

Though you feel like you’re in hell, and that nothing will quell the Storm in you, don’t do anything rash.

This feeling won’t last.

As Tolkien said:

“This too shall pass.”

Know this is not the end.

Your story is unwritten.

You hold the pen and can start writing again.

Though the world will continue hitting you with its lies and Negativity, depleting you physically, mentally, and spiritually; and Every day it feels like part of you dies, realize:

You are a phoenix.

Now rise.

An Ode to Melanin

Before I begin, listen to what I’m spitin’ before ya come at me with Who ya think I’m dissin’.

If you’re white, some of y’all are all right, but for the rest, hold on Tight.

When I was younger, I had a thing for Anglo boys. Redhead, Blonde, brunette, they all got my dick wet.

Yet, I never felt secure in my own skin when I looked at my Reflection, even though I had the complexion for protection.

Listen to what I’m laying down before you start clowning around. You’re not the enemy; I’m just not with that white supremacy, Which says if you’re African, then you’re subhuman.

So, let’s dig in.

It’s not a sin to have melanin; black is where it’s at, and brown is The talk of the town.

Screw jungle fever.

I don’t wanna be with ya unless your skin’s brown like a beaver.

 I won’t poke her unless she’s ocher; I don’t want no fellow unless he’s at Least high-yellow; I don’t want your number unless you’re burnt-umber.

If you can pass the paper bag test, then it’s for the best if I pass on that ass.

Let me reiterate: my anaconda don’t want none, hun, unless you can go in the sun without getting well-done, son.

This isn’t coming from a place of hate; I’m not trying to Discriminate, just trying to eliminate the fools from my dating pool Who are only into me because of the stereotype of the bbc, or who Think it’s erotic that they find me exotic.

Sorry, bro, but that’s a no-go.

No more will I be your chocolate-covered lover, your s’more whore.

I think it’s obnoxious, and if I’m being honest, I find it vomitous.

I’m sure by now some of you are riotous. In the interest of Verisimilitude, I admit my biases.

I’ve been hurt by many a jerk, but if you’re sans the racist attitude, maybe it could work?

And if you’re cute, that’d be a perk.   

An Ode to Joy

Joy is hope risen anew, being full of energy and not knowing what to do. It’s dreaming the impossible dream, screaming in ecstasy as You glimpse the great beyond. On a hot summer’s day, it’s a dip in The pond; It’s wearing new clothes that make you feel like James Bond; it’s Spending time with a person of whom you’re fond.

 Joy is the answer to the call of the infinite, eternal sea from which we All sprang and will return. It’s the balm on the burn that is life, a knife That cuts through all despair; it’s the wind rustling through your hair as You drive down the road without a care.

It can be found in the darkest of places and can raise us to the highest of Places, if we only we submit to it.

It’s a fit of the giggles when you blaze a spliff and get legit lit. It’s the Power of words to make you resist the urge to binge and purge or slit Your wrists.

It’s finding your island of misfit toys and not giving a whit about the Thoughts of some supercilious shit.

It’s that hit to your gut that knocks you on your butt and makes you say, “What?” when you see a hottie, that tingle in your body when you think Something naughty.

It’s the exhilarating thrill that sends chills up your spine when your legs Entwine, giving you all the feels. The kiss that seals the deal and lets You know this is for real real.

 Joy is the phoenix born from the flames of our will made manifest When we kill our ego and tap into our inner hero.

It’s shots of Jäger and Jack back-to-back on a Saturday night. It’s Dancing in the club, fifty-deep, and not caring that you’ll get no sleep. It’s ice cream on a lazy Sunday, lounging in bed all day and staying up All night.

Joy is that contentment when only you and the night are awake and only Your thoughts feel real. It’s the warm glow you felt the first time you Met and the spark you get when you kiss that you’ll never forget. It’s the Rush as you gush, busting a nut once, twice, thrice.

It’s the intoxication you feel when all you can think about is them, when Just the sound of their voice or the scent of their skin shoots you to Heaven and back again.

Joy is the simple pleasure you got playing as kid. Seeing the world t

Through eyes so innocent, where anything could become a toy.  Those Simple things that we took for granted because we young and dumb. What glorious fun could be had from a ball and a bottle. Those summer Days spent playing catch, football, and countless other games late into The night. Those blunder years when everything was still so new and Full of wonder before our innocence faded and we became broke and Jaded.

It’s the feeling that you aren’t alone, that it was ok to like other boys in That way; it’s coming home.

 Joy is finding a place where you fit and not giving a shit what anyone thinks.

If you take anything from this poem, know that joy is what you make of It.