que-saisje

[que-saisje]

Had  A Dream

I was at a doctor’s office. After some kind of consultation, I was told to follow a nurse downstairs and schedule another appointment or something to that effect. I walk through a set of double doors and I’m in this factory style setting. Tall industrial building. Tall “open slats” in the concrete that go straight to the roof, straight around the building. Only natural light for the the most part - which is to say dark. It’s late afternoon, maybe early evening. I’d say 3-5pm in the summer. I don’t ever see drugs but somehow I know this is a drug ring. But it’s more than that, it’s like a proto society. The kids, or the youngest of the folks are clearly of lesser rank or regard. The leader is a tall darker skinned African American garbed in all black. At one point, he seems to call the day to a close, but not before I hear him verbally abuse some teenage “employee”/subject. People begin to gather on the outer reaches of the building/apparently. They’re gathering on these broad wooden slats, almost like bleachers but flat. The younger and apparently lower in rank are at the back. The older and more elderly in the front. I’m trying to get onto one of the slats myself and the fear of the height is beating me. I wake up. 

[que-saisje]

Once you cross the Mason Dixon line, it's funny how quickly those red flags are reborn in black and white with the blue line.

[que-saisje]

Lila Iké, Skillibeng - Thy Will

A lucky ting mi grow rough.

[que-saisje]

Good vibes only ☀️🌴🌊

Song: “All Up To You” by @shayliasphere #linkinbio

[que-saisje]

the hours rise up putting off stars and it is dawn into the street of the sky light walks scattering poems on earth a candle is extinguishes the city wakes with a song upon her mouth having death in her eyes and it is dawn the world goes forth to murder dreams… i see in the street where strong men are digging bread and i see the brutal faces of people contented hideous hopeless cruel happy and it is day, in the mirror i see a frail man dreaming dreams dreams in the mirror and it is dusk on earth a candle is lighted and it is dark. the people are in their houses the frail man is in his bed the city sleeps with death upon her mouth having a song in her eyes the hours descend putting on stars… in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems

thanks to red-in-the-hague for alerting me to this! Go check out her tumblr to see photos of the wall on which she found this poem. yes, on a wall. (via eecummings)

[que-saisje]

The more you become like the world The easier it is to cope

[que-saisje]

They’re some weeks when I have no love to pour into the world

And others where I overflow

[que-saisje]

Tumblr Poets Vs. Superheroes

I like the hashtag poets on tumblr.

It’s like it’s not my day job,

it’s this other thing I do.

Other thing I do said like

i’m spinning a basketball on my fingertip

like it makes the world turn;

like I dare you to tell me it doesn’t.

Other thing I do like  being a superhero that works in an office job 9-5 then puts a mask on and becomes someone else entirely.

Other thing I do like

you think you know what it means

but you won’t really unless I tell you.

Here we take off the mask and become

the person we are.

Here

metaphors wear capes

and words have the superpower

to hold joy without breaking it;

to release pain without diminishing it.

Here we might not save the world but we are trying at least to save ourselves.

We might not be superheroes but we are

writing with the hope that maybe one day

we will be the hero of our own story.

- @aribcagesymphony​,  Tumblr Poets Vs. Superheroes.

[que-saisje]

My father was a fighter

Instead I chose to run

[que-saisje]

HOW TO LIE WHEN SOMEONE ASKS IF YOU STILL LOVE HIM

Tonight I can smell her on you like a talisman,

a nametag, a grave marker. I wonder if she kissed

your birthmark, the dark red splotch hidden on

your inner thigh like a sunrise that jumped forty feet

from an apartment building just to splatter

into nothingness on the pavement below. I wonder

if she had to look hard to find it, and if you had to guide

her, until she touched it with her tongue.

When my mother’s now-ex-boyfriend left her in college,

she drank three cups of coffee every day-

morning, noon, and night, for every day that he left her

until the day he came back to her again.

For her, caffeine was a coping mechanism.

A rubber band snapped against a wrist,

a late night car drive at 100 miles per hour

just to feel something akin to losing control.

But tonight I remember the newspaper story I read

two years ago, about the young girl whose parents

thought she was pregnant, until they found out

a tiny octopus was growing inside her stomach.

And I realize that no matter how hard I love you,

like a pile driver shoved into my ribs at full throttle,

strength lies in burying certain feelings deep inside,

so deep no one can find them for years,

just like the octopus that made headlines.

[que-saisje]

Drought

Where I grew up, the parks

All doubled as flood basins

And so dry were our bones

That we envied drowning

Where I grew up, ninety one degrees

Counted for fair, mild and decent-

At least compared to the simmering

Of our reckless, sun baked souls

Where I grew up, words would melt right off the page and there was no faith

In any day or age

Where I grew up, Past and present

And gods and men

And dreams and all of them-

Were every bit as empty

As the most stalwart of the

Promises we made ourselves

About ever getting out

[que-saisje]

This world doesn't love me

This isn’t to say my mama doesn’t love me This isn’t to say that on some odd occasion, when the moon is full, the tide is high, and we find ourself in a leap year

this world doesn’t love something I do

Or clap for some tangential part of me But this world doesn’t love me And you, who knew every part of me Understood I prayed you’d never listen When this world told you I wasn’t worth loving But I guess the voices grew too loud

sometimes our walls are human 

Now I know what it feels like to see the last one crumble

[que-saisje]

Stifling

[que-saisje]

Tell me do I have to keep waiting (waiting) When you’re always taking your time?

Every death row inmate every desperate job applicant and every five-year old sitting at a loading screen will tell you: the wait alone can feel worse than the outcome you fear most

In a world they say moves at the speed of thought You have me waiting.

Dollars, euros, yen The closest we come to measuring the infinite complexity of human "value" Forgetting that time is love's currency Traded daily, on an intergalactic stock market And it would seem that ours is sinking

Waiting and not knowing The conjoined twins of an unsung torture And yet, the text-book definition of faith

At this point, I’m used to waiting for you But I’ve learned that the wait is usually worth it

[que-saisje]

Poetry

I read some of her poems today. And I don’t know what clicked. But they were beautiful. Simple. Heartfelt. And I’m realizing that poetry doesn’t “have” to be anything. I’m going to challenge myself to sit down - for just a set time period. And write a poem. And whatever I have at the end is it. 

[que-saisje]

Aalia

If love is like the seasons, you were autumn Blossoming even as the leaves of the royal oak started looking less like earth and more like dawn and sunsets, beginnings and ends in tandem

I found myself on a walk to remember the folly of needing things, that were actively doing me  the discourtesy of disappearing

Our “love” was like that October bronze That crumbled between your fingers Fragments falling into the crevices To linger with you a moment longer While the rest take wind, searching for the nexts, the thens, and the afters

This bond, as brittle as your airy soprano behind each flirtation, and every trip we promised to take together when we were twenty-something that we both knew damn well we’d never mention again

And every time I asked you what you wanted  and your response was "I'm confused,"  I should have realized it certainly wasn't me.

[que-saisje]

I signed the bank-note and slipped it under the window for the teller Shua-Kym? She read, with the inflection of a question My name, more times an interrogative than a declaration What kind of name is that? I reached into my bag of classic responses to this age old question "A name that will head a Wikipedia article one day With no need for disambiguations. A name that makes me a man you’ll be able to search and find by just his first name." The satisfaction of an ego preserved gave way to wonder Why this was the one name in the world that demanded justification Because the fact that this name was the one my father gave me was not enough This name, running the race from lane 8, without a stagger Expected to be that much better