Freedom.
Its smell is great
As I inhale it smoothly.
It's next to You
That I am soothed
Being with You I have found my peace.

baking in the mojave
no rivers here like in the tangles back east
crows—and perhaps other animals can on occasion
be heard in a tussle
squeamish feelings settle in the crater of a
stomach half-empty
Last night I woke up aware
of the snakes that bite and scorpions that pinch
but not how truly they exist
I’ve never felt the sun sear my skin so
I hope to fry and lock in all my juices
like my brother’s rich cooking
oh how I dream of a brother by my side
and the more dreary and sweaty I become
the more I begin to see one
a dark, hulking man, as sullen as I
sulking as I do; beneath a new sun

Stuff To Talk About

Either I’ve a lot to say, or I convey
The selfsame things in lots of ways.
If the latter –
Ten degrees above ch-chatter,
It’s my nature.
As a watcher and a searcher,
It’s a feature picture:
Fixture of that nature
In a structure something that I’ve got to…

Here is what I’ve got to say:
In the long run books are syllables in print.
Remember the Old Testament:
Apples, snakes, man, woman, knowledge.
In the short run, they’re terrific – [books]
[an] aid and shorter route through college.

That said, it’s projection all the way,
A basic you which never brooks stupidity,
Though fixed, and fix a thing,
But give it meaning:
Means and leanings leading to, letting you…
A simple but-not-easy-principle
Where there is circumstance and fate,
Chance, cause, luck and upshot.
Notice I don’t mention choice.
We choose and voice, but inside lies
Our nature – always you who’s you.

Is character your nature?
Is nature you identity?
The answer’s tricky
And you definitely have to try…
You have to definitely try.

Stuff To Talk About 9.22.2014 Definitely Didactic; Arlene Corwin

An albino moth wanders into my apartment
And I wonder how's it's stayed alive so far
And if it will fly low enough
for my dog to ****** out of the sky
And end a dynasty

I could have been dead!
Would that I, be dead in my head?
No, I be dead in thine bed.
Would not that you care that I am dead?

Poppycock and dead!
I am never dead, I am only my head.
Not dead so to say, that you take it away.
I am dead without thine head.

Dead! Better dead than red.
Red, dead in your bed covered in red.
I said I was dead, so leave me in bed.
Dead in your eyes, dead in my bed.

Dead, like dregs.
Dead in a dreg.
Covered head to toe in clay.
Making my way, in heaven to stay.
For you my babe, I am dead.

My white privilege is being proud to be black
I am white so I can be over the top and outspoken about being black
I can say whatever I want about whiteness
and
or blackness
It is self criticism
nothing to do with anyone else's assumptions
black lives matter more than white lives
is the mantra I use to self medicate
pick yourself up by the bootsraps
making black children excited
instead of scared
from the trauma of a racially imbalanced
world of whiteness
in a world that legally denies its traumatic process upon its victims
a society structured on the denial
that whiteness is a mental illness