Sometimes the words don’t fit in my mouth, and so I throw them at people instead. But I’ve recently had to ask myself, ‘Why fucking bother….?”
Though its not like the words will stop coming if I stop conveying my thoughts to people.
Oh, no, then it will be me, and the words, and the meaning of the words, which causes much more trouble then simply the words alone.
No. I love words, and I don’t want words to think I am not their biggest fan.
It’s not the words that bother me, it the meaning of the words, and the use of the words when people are too emotionally ignorant to really have a grasp on what it is their trying to say.
Implied meaning is a bitch, she’s big too, and ugly as fuck! Every time I see her, I wanna smack the shit outta her, but I digress.
You see, to people like me, your opinions and thoughts make a lot of dam noise. Irritating noise.
And I’m not sure why other than reading that I’m a HSP, but I can’t use that as a reason and/or excuse, because some asshole will try to pry it from my fingers using words and reasons, because they hate me for my freedom, or something like that.
Ignorance is orange, and sounds like a screeching howl, something that is begging to be put to death. I’m a dragon slayer, me, myself.
It does this very strange tribal dance consisting of thrusting and pumping movements, trying hard to posture itself into relevance. It can be entertaining if you aren’t very careful but I don’t indulge in observation much. You gotta be careful with these things.
Indifference is pale, and mucous covered, something similar to a cadaver, I imagine. It stinks and leaves a wet trail as it moves about.
The words don’t fit in my mouth, so I write them on paper, and that was perfectly fine until I found out that my angry poems were not just my sole invention.
Pick a decade in the 90’s, because I had recently chopped off my back length hair for a Toni Braxton/Halle Berry short pixie.
I was rocking my first (adult and in public) mini skirt (silver-it seemed like a good idea at the time), and a leather vest (Um, yeah), and heels and had come out to join my co-workers/friends at our after work dive, known as Ringside, for a fancy performance.
The comedy show and after party seemed like a good idea at the time, I’m sure I didn’t have the money to spend on the ticket or drinks, but here I am, nevertheless. Talked my way passed security, the bouncer, and the door cashier because I’m hood known.
Some chick sang ‘Real Love’ by Mary J Blige, she had a big ‘church’ voice and got the crowd hyped. Everyone loved MJB. She was the newest thing in R&B lik-ism and this was at the start of her very long and successful career.
A young Black comedian, who I share a first name with was one of the acts that night, but before he went on, there were a few more crowd warmers for us to enjoy/ignore. #staytuned #memoir
His set was opened by a ‘spoken word’ artist, at first the crowd seemed a little disappointed that other singers weren’t performing like the MJB close, but instead, a small, high yella black woman with dooky braids took the stage.
She announced her name and travels, of which I didn’t catch, because I’m short, and wasn’t listening. She said something about touring colleges and clubs in towns that I hadn’t heard of since my father died three years prior and eons ago.
I turned my attention to something else; a cigarette, a conversation, some man’s attempt at eye contact.
Disinterested, I had no patience for no bullshit ass poetry about no fuking rainbows and no goddam imaginary love.
“HOW CAN YOU FUCK WITHOUT KISSING”
My head snapped around.
“kiss my nose”
“kiss my toes”
Everyone got momentarily quiet. The lull of conversation heard only a moment before had been inhaled by the voice of the tiny Black woman with not enough melanin to be so angry on the low lit stage.
I wasn’t the only person in the audience of low urban lowlife’s to become disinterested in what a spoken word artist would have to say to make me give a fuck, we all rethought that decision as soon as her voice hit our collective ears.
I listen closer to hear her voice above the crowd, as she continued, full silence and attention. Even the rude, drunk ass hecklers had enough sense to shut up and let the lady speak. I heard her tempo, and voice inflection, but not much of the words until she cursed!!
And used big, big, words that danced around in a figure eight. At the same dam time.
Entwined though they rhymed she felt no need to heed to the bow to the oppressive system of qualifying grammar, topics and themes. She spoke just like me and you, so when she says, ‘black girl juice’, I know what she means.
Better yet, this was the first time I had ever heard urban poetry presented as something considered ‘real serious’ art. Of course I had heard poems before, by White people talking about irrelevant dumb shit, but nothing much about things I know and live.
Later I would go on to learn that this concept is viability.
The fact that her work consisted of themes highlighting the political and social problems that seemed to have been left to the memories of those who cared to recall the 70’s was that much more intriguing. She spoke the language of my people, anger, war, resentment. Grandma Hill taught me to ‘speak the truth, shame the Devil’ who is often a White man, but us poor Blacks aren’t supposed to say that, because if we don’t say it, then it isn’t true, ya know. *wink. wink*
Intrigued, I made my way closer to the stage, at first I tried to make due with listening to her represent Black power fist style by watching the very tip top of her braided head bounce and sway to punctuate her verses.
The crowd sways and stomped their feet at her crescendo, I took the opportunity to dip and dodge between legs and bodies to move closer to the stage.
“She sounds like she’s rapping,” I thought to myself.
I had been writing poems or what you might call raps in my secret notebooks since seventh grade but there weren’t many female rappers then, or now.
And definitely not many feminine, extra light, bright, petite Black women with college educations standing on stages gripping microphones to think that I should want to grow up and be like her. Grandma said for me to fight the fight, and my weapons are words.
She was a sight for sore eyes I hadn’t known were hurting.
This woman, she looked like me.
Not super large and overbearing.
Not larger than life and donned of costumes, background singers and lighting effects.
Not standing next to a man with her tits out while doing the cookie cutter movements that are meant to convey ‘I’m sexy’, no.
She stood on the stage with a microphone and universally understood Janet Jackson style braids and her voice talking about the shit you’re not supposed to talk about. All loud. And unapologetic. She’s angry Black woman.
Social. Political. Sexual. Violence. Childhood. Motherhood. Gay Hood. Silence. Killings. And dysfunction.
Misogyny. Systematic Oppression. Race wars. Social construct. Meme’s. Ethnocentrism.
Simple words for simple people who only want to live, and love, and die, in peace and without having to explain or apologize for their skin color, lack of money and education or their strange inability to become successful white people with ease of access and insider knowledge. Explanations for complicated concepts don’t have to be.
She talks about herself. Educated. Traveled. Working. Fighter. Just like you.
Just like me. Just like us on stage right now yelling.
Motor City, is where the lady is from, that’s where they make cars, I think to my 19 year old self.
Civil issues, the shit that’s wrong with, and wrong for, and wrong shit done to people of color, which includes poor people, handicapped, and a bunch of other folks who aren’t white and male and not necessarily colored but fucked up and disregarded as such.
You mean to tell me that I can use the same words here, as I use there, and no one will tell me I’m not educated enough, or black enough, or important enough to be enough? Get da fuck outta here….
Are Black women allowed? Am I Black enough to be allowed to speak for Black women who are bearing more of the burden of the blackness that is stuck to the bottom of my shoe too? High yella doesn’t absolve us of Black Girl Juice.
You mean even after I get my two degrees, honor society induction, and quarterly Dean’s lists certificates that I can still go back and pen a strongly worded letter to the editor of my paper that includes an insult as useful and direct as ‘FUK YOU DOH!’
You mean, I can say that I’m fed up, over worked, under appreciated, horny for black man and tired of their particular bullshit, while all the while conveying messages that are meaningful, even if not worded in perfect sentence structure?
Egad….I know this conversation, my grandmother fed it to me, along with Farina, and cinnamon sugar.
I still eat Farina.
And though it would take a few years more, I now know more bigger and better words to throw at people when they talk stupid shit, but I will forever be behind the screen thinking, ‘you dumb bitch!’ because old habits die hard.
I promise not to type this at or to any particular person unless there is alcohol involved, or a really relevant point to me spazzing.
Relevant points are important, people often miss them, and then they start talking, which is what people do when they want to feel involved and useful.
Poetry is thoughts, and messages, and ideas.
Inspiration and instruction, encouragement, and tradition.
I’ve never been one to write happy poems about rainbows, not even if the poem is some type of gay, because rainbows can’t solve hunger, racism, sexual abuse, societal dysfunction, or anything bothering working class, or brown people, or regular people, who use broken words and curses to make it through the shit they call their life. Pardon my French. The poems have a fuking use.
Occasionally, I can get so angry that I spit out a poem, unedited, that rhymes (and makes perfect sense) via a Tweet. Don’t believe me? THIS IS NOT A POEM is a series of Tweets. Count each stanza and see if it ain’t under 140. Go ‘head, I’ll wait.
Sometimes the words don’t fit in my mouth, because they’re not for me. They’re for others I meet while on my life path.
You might need some words to work through the problem/solution that you are looking to remedy. Sometimes the words to your life’s theme song are sung by a perfect stranger. We’re all like small cells conducting energy back and forth between each other and those around us.
Sometimes you are just trying to be an underage teenager in a bar full of drug dealers and truckers trying to make her way to the stage, but you don’t even know it.
The words don’t fit in my mouth. They spill out my nose, in red blood spots and splatters on the floor, while he beats me. My words don’t make much noise to him, but they mean the world to me when I tell myself, ‘He’s crazy’, ‘I don’t deserve this’, and ‘leave him’ before I knew I was capable of taking care of myself and my daughter alone.
The words don’t fit in my mouth, they echo across continents, space and time. The words that have since fallen out of my mouth has bought emails from people who thank me for saying what they could not. I can’t forget them, us, we, because you people get to play pretend and we’re tired of being left out. Forgive me for raising my voice. Or not.
The words don’t fit in my mouth, they sneak into your dreams and disrupt your sleep when I say something that strikes a nerve to make you speak out or for or against or in favor of the thing that the words used to mean to you.
The words don’t fit in my mouth, letters shimmy between my teeth, and they bite the hand that dares abuse another. I hate a fucking bully, and even worse than hating bullies is being forced to get along well with others so that the bully doesn’t get their feelings hurt. Keeping words to myself is no fun. I already know how I feel and that’s not good enough.
They tell stories about the people that you would like to forget exist. I love the words that create conflict with each other when used in the same sentence.
Privacy and gender.
Race and respect.
Females and value.
Equality and Poverty.
Sometimes the words don’t fit in my mouth, and so I throw them at people, much like the woman on the stage threw them at us, the audience, that night before I put the voodoo onto that comedian who shall remain nameless. #30Rock
So don’t mind me, while I’m over hear yelling at myself in the mirror, this is how I practice cursing your people out. For every easily accepted truth, there needs to be a loud and vocal dissent that uses logic rather than loopy fairy tales. Dam near everyone is talking their own personal brand of bullshit, if you listen closely to the words, you can smell it.
For every woman that goes along just to get along, there needs to be a bathroom wall for her to scratch out her frustrations, away from the eyes of those that would cause her harm for speaking the truth. The words don’t fit in my mouth, and so I pass them to her under the bathroom stall of sisterhood in the great equalizer. Shit happening.
For every poor person that feels, deep down inside, that there is a trick to this thing called ‘success’ and it should be referred to as an inside joke instead of an apt pursuit of one’s time when you can’t afford to really matter, I’m your poster girl because now I know the Matrix exists. I can see the dam green lines and everything. Where is that blue pill when you need it?
Sometimes the words don’t fit in my mouth, I write them down instead.
And you can hate them.
Get angry at them.
Pretend to be confused by them.
You can ignore them.
The words that don’t fit in my mouth are not your problem, the swayed opinion and points of views that they create are your true enemy. I raise my sister girl fist in a Black power move, irregardless of whether or not bougie broads think it proper for me to do or not. You can’t check me, Boo.
You can’t sleep at night because I shook your cage, you rabid troll and I’m still light skinned-ed, black, ethnic and part of the conversation whether my hair can maintain a true afro or not.
I flaunt my sexuality, my gender, my sexual prowess, my attitude, my intellect and my cool as a Spring breeze way with the hither’ers of any race, shape, form and protected class whom I see fit. Why? Because this is what one does when she is okay being who she is and allowing others to be okay with her too. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.
I wield and swing my Black girl attitude having hips with all the might I can muster, as I prove to you that your version of my vagina isn’t half as good as the reality of what I know to be true of the love below and the people who genuinely adore the holders of such.
The words don’t fit in my mouth, nor the mouth of Jessica Care Moore, who inspired me to keep writing in notebooks about the things I seen, but everybody wanna ignore.
Maybe words are like smiles, you give one and then you get one back and make someone’s political shift?
Maybe words are like echoes, bouncing and shifting as they make their journey until the end of time?
The words don’t fit in my mouth, so maybe they’ll find a better home with a brand new owner, and maybe that’s been the plan all along. The concept of spoken word came from Africa, and maybe I’m just doing as is natural to the grio.
I ask myself why I bother to write, and sometimes I really don’t know, then it occurred to me.
I’m not here for you to like me, agree with me, blow smoke up my ass or pet me on the head like a dam Cockerpoodle.
I’m not here to gain your acceptance, your cooperation or your accolades, nope, not I.
I’m here because I’m an artist, a woman and a voice, and that’s more than enough to matter, contrary to what you’ve been told.
Sometimes I have to remind myself that the conversation isn’t for your benefit, its for mine and the people who are hungry.