As you can probably tell from all the CDs I have strewn in that corner of my desktop (See my fabulous musical taste! Can you name them all?), I've been playing with Clutter. It's really cute! However, you might want to unclutter your life.
A lot of my work happens within my Black gay community - that's something I'm extremely proud of. It's a blessing to be able to choose this in this uncertain economy. It's an extension of how I feel about developing and maintaining our community - our spaces and relationships with others like myself. Lately, though, I've been wondering about how this translates on the level of diaspora.
From September 2002: returning from a great time in the ATL, voting for a candidate who would lose, and not quite escaping the onslaught of 9/11 anniversaria ...
... and a couple mo' poetic expressions:
Bloggers for Peace was great, but HOW in the hell did this beautiful short comic (written and illustrated by Toni Rae Knight) get overlooked? Miss Toni is definitely telling a story - she's telling OUR story. Damn!
Check it out. And when you're done, heap your praise upon her by leaving a comment in her journal, okay?
When Philippe and I hooked up on Friday, he reminded me that Baghdad lies in the center of what was once Mesopotamia. How tragic that the cradle of the world's oldest civilizations be treated with such calamitous disrespect.
By the way, all this hypocrisy surrounding the opulence of Saddam Hussein's palace is nauseating. Do rich people here in America gauge the poverty of their fellow Americans before they decorate? And do rich people here invite the poor into their homes when the camera isn't rolling? Whatever ...
Also, my poem Peace Is is today's feature on keithboykin.com! Awwww shucks now!
Peace is not some blushing cherub
tiny fat hands clasped and tiny eyes closed
lips pursed in holy reverie
while bombs explode convenience
and not profit
bursting, bloody in the background.
Peace is not the face of some refugee child
painted with a symbol that no one really knows
dirty and starving and naked
dancing on camera for billions
for nothing.
Peace is not the returning soldier
sailing through placid sky and sea
without the slightest recognition,
without the sanctity of life.
Peace is not M16s at Fulton Street Station
or 125th Street or the Grand Concourse,
carding me as if I'm about to
get my groove and/or drink and/or freak on
when I just want to go home.
Peace is not offering the opportunity of welfare
when my job is gone
when my rent is due
when my lights can go at any minute
and I'm hungry and still anxious
choking on ash.
Peace is what my mother taught me
that, whatever I choose, I can be.
Peace is knowing I'll do my best
in a world where my best doesn't look like the rest.
Peace is walking down the street
sensing the subway underneath
feeling it rumble, hearing it bay
and knowing that everything's okay.
Springtime is such a lovely time for sprucing up things and feeling refreshed, isn't it?
