saying it

as if good wimen are silent
while bad wimen are loud
since respectability politics
demand female silence and emptiness
such irony matched with urgency
in these struggle times
for all wimen to echo out
our righteous right
to love and pleasure
this not being prioritized enuf
this healing need to feel joy
necessitates me saying it

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I use your insults against me as poetry

So yes, folk, I do get fan letters. I also get trolls. And then there’s spies who look at my social media for the purpose of running my name up and down hallways because they have nothing better to do, which is ironic, considering the fact that most of them get bigger paychecks than me. In fact one of them sent a nasty note to me via FB msgr whining about me being “sexually frustrated, anal retentive, and racist.” Someone, probably a man who really resents my voice on matters like consent and privilege, wrote this whiny set of accusations. I’m petty enough to use it in the next three poems in a short series called the accusations. Use it, said Blade to Whistler. Use it.

 

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Poems are like a box of clothes never worn from your brain

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I think my brain treats my poetry writing sessions as an exercise in unpacking boxes from the attic and every once in a while finding a good classic cookbook, or a lovely set of dishes never used. Or a dress worn just once and it still fits. Or even an old, raunchy paperback novel, like The Story of O.

I think I had once of these month long sessions of unpacking some really raunchy novels, and given what I just dreamed last night, I think that analogy fits like a ball gag. Someone asked me about teaching The Story of O by Pauline Reage, a work that should not be taught without matching it with the French Feminisms anthology that tears it to pieces. I pretty much view Reage, du Sade, and other erotic writers of the 18th through the latter 20th century attempting to expel the Church’s repression of sexuality—but not the misogyny that came along with the repression. How is it in the 21st century we are still dealing with repression, misogyny, and fear of female desire?

I did not dream of finding wedding dresses in my closet. I have many more stories and poems to unpack and put on a table to shine or toss. Some of them sound like fragments from a raunchy novel. It’s my way of getting my brain out of writers block as I finish my other writing gig for a deadline later this month. I wouldn’t say it’s better than sex, but given the level of frustration that summer brings me (it’s warm, so I exercise and that definitely gets me aroused), writing about these things helps chase away writers block and depression over my summer blues over my lack of companionship. Love and lust really do matter for us writers—at least for me it does. And vibrators don’t inspire 5000 word chapters. Or epic poems.

Enjoy your morning commute.

time for a new bed

haunted space
empty
this is a bed
that needed to go
ten years ago
beds keep memories
beds soak up sorrow
bad breakups
every single fight
every drop of semen
every drop of blood
every drop of urine
every tear
not wiped away or scrubbed
every dream
every nightmare
every moment of
anger
joy
horror
fear
depression
you thought lost
or forgotten
echoes of orgasms
you thought
best not spoken of
every lover
every spouse
real or imagined
soaked in fabric
you did not realize
consumed your
parts of beingness
left in the ether
of the past
and like shoes
over worn and torn
it must be replaced.

the healing came last night

sage on fire
smoking
swirling
washing my rooms
lingering
chasing out demons
welcoming love
healing all spaces
i was tipsy with spirit

Who is the “you” and “I” in my poetry?

So, if you happen to know me, you may be wondering if I’m talking about you, or someone close to me or you. The answer is no. Yes. Maybe. Maybe not. Who gives a fuck? I’m writing about human experience and what we endure while living on this planet. I do include my twisted imagination and twisted reality and twisted feelings. I’m pretty strange in my flesh n blood world, so if my writing makes you feel a bit uncomfortable, welcome to my world. I might write about you one day. Let the world beware, said Catherine Tramell.

The Month is almost up. Not sure I feel like doing this in June. Holla at me and tell me.

Oh, and I’ve been holding back a bit. Look for me to just get straight up weird these last days.

what erotic subjectivity looks like part 1

female sexuality
female subjectivity
erotic subjectivity
woman
unbound
untied
to childbirth
to marriage
not owned
not controlled
no fear
no shame
no mask
speaking
consenting
deciding
being.

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