...and then...

To be sure that it happens, I want to apologize in advance. Abundantly, humbly, tenderly and with tears streaming slick across my face, I a-p-o-l-o-g-i-z-e to anyone with the misfortunate of being stranded with me in the icy dimple of an artic incline, deep in the sinister thick of jungle extremes, clutching the rails on a hijacked passenger train, racing from an underworld hit man, or navigating shark infested waters in a raft we've made from Red Bull cans and waxed dental floss. I'm sorry --particularly to the people whom I treasure and love fiercely—but I will not be your sidekick of choice in times of epic crisis. And this sobering thought is what eventually swells in my mind while watching action flicks and thrillers. With every heroic leap atop high rise rooftops, every slug and gecko gobbled down for replenishing sustenance, with every half mile of sprinting (sprinting, for goodness' sake!), I shake my head at how utterly useless I would be in any of the cited situ...

I suppose a fair compromise would be to go ahead with the celebration but hold back on the sparklers and pink frosted cake. A pseudo-celebration, of sorts. See, I’m over the moon about the muckety mucks at Disney finally creating a Black princess! Sure, it may seem silly for a grown woman to spontaneously spin cartwheels in high heels over a cartoon character. But this is huge! This is the type of thing us little folks—the real people—rely on for tracking our actual progress. We’ve learned not to include the impotent and poorly-negotiated “firsts” like Janice Rogers Brown and Condoleeza Rice in our headcount. They don’t speak for us, the little people. Our hope, instead, is embedded in the organic superstardom of gay talk show hosts, plus-sized super models, Hispanic cabinet members, Olympic amputees and sexy senior citizens. A Black Disney princess is, indeed, worthy of adult cartwheels. The first Disney princess, Snow White, debuted in 1937. There were four more regal teens (...

I told a lie to my daughter. An elaborate one … with props and everything! See, her loose tooth finally popped out on Saturday morning. `Saturday afternoon, we put the tooth in an envelope and readied it beneath her pillow for You-Know-Who. Saturday soon faded into Sunday and my daughter still had the tooth. “Mama! The Tooth Fairy didn’t come!” she called from her bed. “She didn’t?!” I called back, feigning shock and cringing at myself. “Let me call her.” Yep. I said it: Let me call the Tooth Fairy. The lie starts here, people. The next morning, beneath her pillow, my daughter found a handwritten note card from the Tooth Fairy explaining that she missed our house because she had gone to bed with a horrible cold. “Thanks for the tooth!” What? The tooth fairy couldn’t have a little chest congestion? Hey, I don’t even feel bad. I know that honesty is the best policy blah blah blah but not at the price of telling a 5 year old that the Tooth Fairy really fell asleep in the living r...

I went to prison this week, for the first time. Sadly, like many folks who've never been inside a correctional facility before, my expectations had been shaped by MSNBC's Lock-Up , HBO's Oz , the films ConAir and Shawshank and, maybe, a dab of The Andy Griffith Show . I know. How surburban of me. Suffice it to say, my assumptions were ... um ... wrong. True, the innmates could've been actually shanking and hustling and tossing one another right before I showed up, but they were writers and poetry fans with me. By the end of the night, I was signing programs like a rock star and accepting generous compliments and thank-yous for the day we'd spent together. "You're a blessing ... really." Me? Sheesh. "Thank you" isn't quite adequate, d'ya think? No, I didn't think so either. Especially when they are the ones who made the day important, which made it spectacular. For my part, I turned a workshop into a sustainable series ... someth...

Words stand still frightfully suspended between broad bands of expectation Bodies of young boys beneath murky lagoon surfaces bound by marsh weeds pulled down to sweeten its stagnant streams Words frozen in my mouth jagged edges digging into fury tearing open that simple shell exposing apathy's patient dead seed Unable to bear fruit from freedom ringing verdicts handed to police academy misfits one family our community all damned to prune these plantation field perversions grief proving its forever harvest Words shrink away today too small and limp to even wobble beneath the weight of this unbrave world shrinking into corners what good can they do anyway

When I'm not scribbling lines of poetry on Q'doba receipts or dialogue quips on my daughter's homework (hey ... Yale will not be asking for copies of her worksheet on words that start with "th"), I'm pretending to be a marketing consultant. Actually, I'm pretty good at what I do (I'm allowed to say that, right?) I only say "pretending" because I'm one of those people who always thinks they could and should be better, especially since I started working independently 6 yrs ago. I used to recoil from the [whisper] overachiever label ... but I used to think I'd be a Size 10 again, too. Right. Get over it. Anyhoo, I was hired to plan a 99th birthday gala for the first African-American woman to become a licensed mortician in the State of Wisconsin (I know). But, this sista was smooth, you hear me?! She's still vibrant and eloquent and graceful and warm and funny, simply amazing. I put together a photo montage for the reception and din...

I know I promised a moment-by-moment of Mahagony & Jive's show, but anything above "outstanding" is truly saying too much. The venue was a chic, and still cozy. The crowd was lively, and still fertile. The hosts were skilled, and still raw (what?! with the peanut butter & jelly sandwiches?!?!). The show was well done, well attended and much-appreciated. The lineup included myself, Christa Bell (Seattle), Bassey Ipke (NYC) & Queen Sheba (Atlanta). I carry a great deal of respect for all three of these performers; so it was an honor to share the mic with them: One of Those Tribute Poems This is my first Official Ride-your-jock Poem I’ve heard plenty of poetry with well-crafted lines to stutter my breathing and collide my palms into spasmatic applause but I’ve always found tribute poems to be crude flat & simple still beautiful well-written powerful seductuctive, even but I vowed to never write one And then her signature bit me with a whip dipped in some...