Yesterdays hits and misses.

Hit Number 1: Weather cool enough to make my friend from Cali happy. I got to whip out my ugg minis and not feel ashamed that I missed their warm, cushiony melody hugging my feet and not ripping my toe nail polish off the way my cute boots do. (just saying)

Hit Number 2: Habana Outpost. I just love that place. No further spiel necessary.

Hit Number 3: Karen's Body Beautiful. Oh, the deliciousness of hair care products with a little Maxwell and Jill playing in the background. Am I probably spending too much money on shea butter and conditioner? Absolutely.
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So I found this post that I started in late August and cannot believe I was wearing uggs... in late August. How cool could it have been? I need to seriously address being spoiled by fur lined boots. August....Why not sneakers? (Shaking my head)

Mmmm. Habana Outpost. I really could go for a plate of rice and beans with guac and seventy five degree weather right now.  How wonderful it was to be spoiled by summer adventures and thoughts for a moment as I look at the snow on my windowsill and the hot chocolate on the night stand. Summer hurry back. We miss you.

New poems

I dig these I hope you will too...

Less

A dirty word, Albino

           Missing skeletal teeth

and grafts of color.

            a five year old twisting

grip from a honey hand.

                        Spotted arms and legs

Cut and sprinkled in glass

For witch             and craft

            Secret pursuits

of  light

Skin                        and here

  are terrors, celebration of

  a German- Swedish-Dutch face.

Blood in these lines,

Berbers.

Nairobi’s new trade item,

White skin.

Worksheet

    oil on cloth

 [HERE]

No hat in this here

 church. The ghost ‘git me here

Frankincense, work clothes,

   the parable of Lazarus

 praise in a body

Our father.

[OUR]

What is it

this our?

Should it be hour?

For one hour we sit in the back of this

Baptist church they pray

They - our father.

 [THEY]

I’ve been missing

church, gospel shows, and Grant’s Tomb

I hear that they are there.

White people is alright

 not in my neighborhood.

[MY]

If my money goes

towards a little shine

I should not, will not feel

Guilt. What I have is MY

There are words – salvation,

shout, litany. Rounded shoulder

rainbows. My shoulders do not

round.

Stretching marks

Thirteen hand etchings                                                                           wonder of a son

fist and knife before school

Ankh under arm                                                                                    flesh

pyramid eyes

trim

visual assaults

elevated locs

snatch

light absences

lock this article in white

knee to collar

refuse me

 Ex patriotism: covered candle under bed

[Aganyu]

 Do not understand blue cup.

Azul connects to the mug much quicker

Yesterday a percussionist pounded

Cuban hip hop -  calling black identity

french music

[Eshu]

I forget that daily words of allegory

become exoticism here.

When my father intones Yemaya

I tell him race is acceptable

[Oshun]

my skin fades as I hide

from the chill

Your mother can’t swim

[Oya]

I do not have the trade answer   

the spicket falls from the ceiling

mask in air