skittles & iced tea

angel-faced
brown boy
not even as big as the other kids

but still a threat to someone...

i can't say i'm trying to make sense of the incident.
i know why it makes "sense". 

if i'm trying to make sense of anything,
it's why we've come this far
to learn so little.

i've spent so much time
trying to get the black men in my presence to relax
even when i know why they can't.

stories like this unravel all my weaving.

i suppose we can only do
what we can
where we can.

pray.

hope for the best.

maybe.

maybe more...

victory

lately, there have been many battles.

it's been a long time since i've been this weary.

it's also been a long time since i've felt this strong.

i am resting. building. learning. stretching.

even through tears.

i am the tiger's daughter,
newly named for a nubian lioness.

i know how to rest in the high grass

and wait.

but hunger is a compelling force.

when the time's right
i will pounce
and feast.

expect me.

a new connection...

as i experienced this, i didn't realize this:

Xochiquetzal was honored at a festival every 8 years. A young woman was chosen by artisans to impersonate the goddess; she would be sacrificed, flayed, and her skin given to a man to wear while pretending to weave. Artisans would dance around the scene and then confess their sins to a statue of Xochiquetzal through bloodletting. She was also one of the goddesses impersonated during the Toxcatl festival, ritually married to a young man and kept in luxury for a year before being killed.

was that vision an alternative version of the luxury before the sacrifice? 

...or is it possible my vision predates the days of sacrifice?

i've learned to question the histories we're left with, if for no other reason than many weren't articulated until the various conquerors came.  there are centuries to know before that; centuries lost to dirt, water, air and other powers.

sometimes our soul-memories are the realest ones. even if they are the least-believed.

chasin paper

inspiration: twitter & sept. 17

too many holes
in too many hearts
stuffed with paper
money;

unpack 'em
and the light
and love
might creep in...

protect the hoard
at all costs
let it fill our ears
better yet,
cover our eyes...

your greed
cannot obscure the truth:
no matter what it buys,
poverty of spirit
can never be
abundance.