Last night I scribbled something sloppy about wanting to be a poet. They don’t come any more, and when they do come, they come dark and weepy and wanting something. I want something edgy and political and bombastic even, something I can say on stage without trembling. Something that will soar in my angry black girl voice and make people want to shake my hand, not check my wrists for the scars.

But… the play came. And it came so beautiful. And tomorrow they read it on stage and then maybe, maybe, full production in winter. So writing I have been. But poems. Poems don’t come.

Drinking Sweet Tea. There’s a picture of a plantation on the can. Well…the Big House of the plantation. I wish the camera would pan left and show the coons crouching in the cotton.

Everyday… I look at the clock at exactly 4:16…sometimes twice a day and I say “hey that’s my birthday.” I wonder why I don’t look at the clock at 4:15 or 4:17, but everyday at 4:16, sometimes twice a day, I look at the clock and say “hey! that’s my birthday.” but not outloud because that would be weird.

And then there are big orange moons and talk of egyptian blue ones. I search eyes and lines and faces, hoping the truth will come if I concentrate hard enough. That I will know something with some certainly. But the truth hangs back, like the poems, and laughs, and I don’t know what’s what and I thought condoms meant sex, but I guess not always, and I thought you only burned candles when I was there, but I guess not always, and I thought she was beautiful too, and smart, and funny, and maybe that’s why I am so scared. But then I relax into the arms of a deep blue moon roaring gently into my neck, and its ok, I don’t care.

It’s 4:20 now.

And I have not written a poem. Another coded rant about nothing anyone will know but me. So, I’ll go.
And maybe poem picture on my back, first tattoo, like kisses, with mouth slightly open. And a haughty chin. And breasts to pay attention to.