Last night fireworks decorated Brooklyn skies for a sinister celebration
Fact: Heels make women taller. An apparatus that functions as a pedestal for female pedestrians who resemble princesses strutting in procession. Women deserve to be elevated above ground at heights greater than the inches of their stilettos. And to be given understanding for their rainbow emotions in the same manner in which we admire the colors emitted by their prism of pumps. I’ve come to respect a woman’s gait because her feet have experienced tougher terrain than the slopes present in her shoes. She walks tall. Strides gracefully. Even on the days where her esteem isn’t as high as she seems.
What are rules to the rebel youth who grow with a gusto for adventure?
Special thanks to Nike for allowing me to lend my talents toward a wonderful campaign for Black History Month.
“Black Ivy Pt II”
Time travel has long been invented. On any canvas where words are written and thoughts are depicted through an artist’s rendition. Books are known to awaken latent photosynthesis. The growth of a garden in the mind. We can all sprout up like Ivy without degrees to prove it. Be Black in the sense that prejudice is absent in the internal classes of our development. Let us not neglect our soul’s soil. Cultivating the land within will reap to a betterment beyond the boundaries of self. And that, indeed, is worth every bit of toil…
Pondering Amidst Precipitation
Friday, 9/28/12, 8:58 AM
It’s raining. And I’m in bed. Limbs languidly sprawled under covers from the sonic hypnosis of water flowing. The trees are having their fill and they slurp loudly. Stand stately. I’ve given thought to venturing outside just to keep them company. It would be like having tea during weekend sunrises with the person who pledged an alliance to your soul. Promising to hold their ground when every thing seems to be falling out of place…even the sky.
There’s some thing wondrous about a gradient sky. When the day clocks out of work and the Sun’s flares smudge the horizon as its eyelids sluggishly surrender to shut-eye. Leaving the moon to adorn herself in a silk white robe like a mother lovingly watching us in the unknown of the night…
Nowadays, I find myself in the habit of boiling water for tea. Just like you. The whispering, creaking kettle sounds like the air from your lungs passing through the lambswool lining of your morning larynx. I leave the fire on for a while and listen to your daily dissertation detailing the benefits of drinking tea. Back then, I’d call it a myth and laugh. You would laugh too. Then we would spar with smiles. My eyes traveled the miles of your face. The plains, hills and valleys. Subdued by the divinity of its scenery. I saw this everyday. Now every sip that I take from this cup reminds me of kissing the earth, rather, kissing the warmth radiating from your cheeks. I sip slow and savor because there will always be tea for later…
My mind told my mouth to utter the first word in French I could conceive.
Seeing how her seams quietly capitulated to her curves.
And likewise the white in my eyes came to represent the color of flags
When this internal war procession loses its beat.
The solitude in surrender.
The amour in armistice.
When I let my guard down like bowing leaves
that have descended from their heights to caress her feet.
Creating a wreath beneath her soles
Because even nature recognizes a Queen.
That explains the passing swift breeze, sneaking kisses on her cheek.
I sent her messages through exhalations
Carried by the winds to tell her that the leaves
Only changed color after seeing the hazel hues in her pupils.
As they desired to camouflage themselves in a beauty beyond this life.
Beyond this plane of existence.
She exists unparalleled
And yet still remains parallel parked in my cranium
Somewhere between my baptism and the future paradise promised
in Isaiah chapter 65, verse 20 and some change
And I know…God doesn’t lie.
So, what’s before me is a preview of prophecy fulfilled.
I’ve experienced far too many cold, be darkened, loveless winters
For her not to be my heart’s salvation.
As she illuminates this inner cave like fireflies.
When the butterflies within me ascend in unison
sparking a spectrum more special than fireworks in the sky.
And it’s not even July..
My independence came to fruition as an offspring of autumn.
Intricately weaved like the tweed on her sleeves.
It was simply breathtaking.
Her scent is worth inhaling more than eons of oxygen.
The essence of vanilla.
Cappuccinos brewing in a quaint corner cafe in France.
I always dreamt of Paris in October.
Romanced over the trifles of the Effiel
But here stood lady liberty holding fire in her palms.
And the slightest touch reminded me of summer
When our love was most feverish.
You see, she is my world.
Her waist the equator.
So I traverse across hemispheres
to experience the shades of all seasons.
The warmth of her lips.
The shivers of her thighs
Clutching park benches as she waits for me tonight.
The trees will wallow in the bellows of her song
And the sun will feel summoned by her voice to overstay its curfew.
The moon will understand.
It has had its share of eclipses.
But things just appear most beautiful when basking in her light.
Thoughts From This Afternoon (8/30/11)
I grew up in a country where the color of my skin was referred to as a nusiance.
And you generally don’t use nouns in place of adjectives but apparently,
I’ve been wearing this noose since my mom received the news
that she’d be giving birth to a boy.
American by location.
Haitian by culture.
Melanin reeking of the blood of African slaves
traded life for synonyms for death
as eyes looked on as vultures.
I wonder if they suggested my mother to keep my umbilical cord in case
the day came where she couldn’t find my bib.
And the pressures of postpartum depression
clouded her perception so that i was viewed as
just another problem
rather than her kid.
The outcome is rather anticlimactic.
Because, even on the cusp of 22
I’m reluctant to raise cups
although I’m prophesying the celebration of my post demise.
Decorated with a pinata possessing ambitions that I strike everyday.
Aware that its vibrations are rattling a nation like poltergeist.
Thoughts Relevant For This Day
We are told to “read between the lines” because deception lies in the crevices of sentences. Where the verbose pose behind words that hide their true identity like silent letters that remain unpronounced. Yes, there is chatter. As is indicative of one who feigns. Ah! But truth prevails in reticence until the others fall in between the cracks of irrelevance. -Joekenneth