Hola y’all I am doing a poetry reading Wednesday OCT 21 2020 5:30 PM MTN on a zoom call hosted by the Albuquerque poet Mary Dezember. Do you wanna hear some new work? I might just break down crying. That happens on some of these pandemic poetry reading zoom calls. I’ve seen some of the best poets in my country weep between their poems–We’ll see what happens with me. It occurs to me this weeping stuff might not be the most sexy advertisement for a poetry reading. Ha. You know me ~~~ I’ll still try to be funny. somehow.dig it:
here’s a blog post about my work in preparation for the reading
For the last four years I’ve been producing a radio show for KTAL-LP called MONSOON DOWN THE RADIO. Here’s my most recent episode. I learned a tremendous amount about America’s Original Sin of racism and white privilege while researching and producing this radio program. During this program I will be reading passages from Jason Reynold’s & Ibram X. Kendi’s Stamped: Racism, Anti-racism, and You. Also I will be sharing poetry from Jericho Brown and Allison Joseph.
turn left on Rosa Parks
right on MLK
Taco Bell’s on the left
All of my heroes are dying.
The birds are fighting crazy today.
The plaited woodpecker sprays bark
from his frenzied beak,
house finches squabble and flap
over seed, and the doves
joust the dog’s bowl for a drink.
There is a pound of volcanic rock
in my stomach.
For Vivian Malone Jones,
just to register for class,
It took National Guard bayonets
to prod Alabama’s governor aside
and now, she’s dead and
what business do I have missing her?
She never sat in Sports Illustrated
afloat a tide of white shoulders.
This week five churches in Alabama
were razed to the ground and
it was raining the day of the boycott
that voice is runoff,
somewhere in the darkness,
deep in the cording.
from Lost On My Own Street, Pski’s Porch, 2016
50 Miles Outside Montgomery
Bald eagles have “hands” as wingtips
and spread open their fingers
like a businessman in a black suit
with black gloves who is starving.
His call is weak, flat, stuttering,
like he’s being told to wait.
Don’t get mad at me
I’m just quoting the bird book.
I’m not anti-eagle exactly,
there was one on the moon after all
with magnets for claws.
Clouds undress the sun
so I look at the red dirt
beside this newly painted road.
What shade of red
is watered-down Confederate blood?
50 miles outside Montgomery
on these shores of Lake Martin
you’re either an organ pipe dirt dauber
who eats little spiders with triangles
on their backs, or you’re the little spider
with a triangle on his back.
Hank Williams Sr. fished these same
in a green aluminum boat.
Soon as stars spread
messy on the waves
he was crying for shore.
My dad says pine trees are grass
and I think he’s lying.
The radio says lichen is fungus
and algae combined like a mule
locked for life to rocks and trunks.
A black speck above the green crown
grows as it approaches our floats.
A bald eagle, white head, black breast,
white tail, huge black wings,
the sky cradled in his fingers.
He passes too quickly to capture.
from Lost On My Own Street, Pski’s Porch, 2016
At TJ Max, a black baby behind us
pulled impulse items from the rack,
and tossed them to the floor.
Before the cashier could notice
my mom alerted the mother
who became infuriated
anyone should dare mention
what their eyes had plainly seen.
This was Montgomery in the 1980’s.
A strange period of payback
played out whenever possible.
My mom wore her lips tight
as we hurried to our Oldsmobile.
(All our cars were white
as my father thought white kept us cool
and didn’t show dirt.)
Waiting to pull onto Vaughn Road
we felt a jolt, a colossal warship
rammed against our tail.
The woman smiled, mom perspired.
We lurched into traffic,
they whipped out with us,
my mom’s forearms trembled,
we sped, and they sped with us.
No car phones back then,
we were all alone. Her eyes
more on the rear view
than straight ahead; the exact act
that had gotten us into this mess.
From side streets they swarmed,
a mutinous armada of moving trucks
and curb feelers cackling wildly—
we ran a red light, they ran it too,
the baby, thousands of them,
in tow to our neighborhood.
But we can’t go home, I cried,
if they know where we live
they’ll ruin everything.
I was just a kid, but my mom,
she should have seen this coming.
from The Summer of Lukewarm Love, Grandma Moses Press, 2006 (out of print)
I was born privileged and white in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1975. I moved to Southern New Mexico in 2001 to become a poet. People would ask me what it was like growing up in Alabama. I would say, “well, I never saw Black folks ripped from their homes and lynched in their front yards. The racism I observed was polite, fit for the dinner table.” Now I understand the reason I never saw Black folks ripped from their homes and lynched in their front yards growing up was because I never went to the black part of town.
Las Cruces, NM
This isn’t a poem or a joke.
This is a confession.
Confession, honesty and repentance are my first steps forward.
From approximately 1985 to 2001
I participated in racist behaviors.
I called black people racist names.
I looked down on black people and laughed at racist jokes.
I was not an ally to the one black student in the graduating class of my high school.
I wish to repent these crimes
in earshot of America.
It took me 45 years to say these words.
It took me 45 seconds to say these words.
A wise poet once said you have to write about the one thing that scares you most.
Maybe this is the first poem I’ve ever written.
1. COVID VIRUS PLANK
Back in mid March, 2020, I was on fire with vigor and optimism. This shows the transition from the classroom to the backyard spitting of fire by MC FLASHCARD:
2. STALEY’s EASTER 2020
In early April there was lots of eating and drinking and being miserable, but no weeping. Here’s a trailer from our family Easter festivities:
3. The Covid-19 Compliment
There came a point in late April 2020 when everybody in my family thought they belonged to the suckiest family in the world. Like we could not even give an honest compliment to each other. See for yourself:
4. DEAR SENIORS
Then, in late May, my Seniors graduated and I wrote them this poem while suffering mid-grade cabin fever. The weeping had begun–slow at first, then steady:
5. MAD COWS – MYSTIC PICKLE
My first band was called the Mad Cows. When we started we were in the 10th grade, Montgomery, Alabama. We reunited in the pandemic, and after 9 weeks of work, all we came up with is this.
(WARNING: may contain artistic quality issues):
In Trinidad the budtender said
Snowcap makes you memoir.
In Pueblo the budtender said
Sneeze Flower starts in your toes,
goes up your legs, and then
makes you memoir.
So many memoirists now
in hightower apartments
all across Lower Colorado,
self publishing first drafts
on CreateSpace at a rate
nobody thought to calculate.
This summer I predict
a memoirist apocalypse!
They’ll cut down all the trees
of the world and we’ll suffocate!
Even academia will take note!
how will they roll their
precious flowers then–
the fools! the fools!