Just so there’s no confusion,
i’m not mad.
And i’m not black.
And i’m not a woman.
And I didn’t grow up on the streets.
All that being said,
i’m not even sure if I can actually BE a poet.
All the hip poets these days seem to be mad.
Or black.
Or women.
Or they grew up on the streets.
Or they’re mad, black, women who grew up on the streets
and HOW CAN I COMPETE WITH THAT?
I’m so white i’m transparent
and it’s fairly apparent that
the only streets I live on
have immaculately manicured lawns
and perfectly repetitive mailboxes lined up like pawns
in some sick, suburban chess match
where the King and Queen don’t so much
move around the board
as they simply catch you off guard
knocking on the door with
“Welcome to the neighborhood!”
and
“We baked you cookies!”
(NOT that i’m complaining)
But i’m guessing all the
mad, black, women poets who grew up on the streets
just shake their collective heads at me
because i’m a minivan and a family away from being a
soccer dad
and i’m pretty sure that
no one
with one of those stupid, soccer ball shaped magnets
adorning their main mode of transportation
can actually be a poet.
What I need…
is some drama.
Dramatically unfolding events i’m told
inspire line after line of poetic discourse
forcing fists to raise unconsciously
and strike nerves
and resonate in the hearts of all the
mad, black, women poets who grew up on the streets
not understanding me
not understanding them
because I didn’t grow up on the streets
and i’m not a woman
and i’m not black
and i’m not mad
(just so there’s no confusion)
but I think I am a poet.
i loved all your poems friday nite. you are one creative person!
said anna g.
at 9:21am on Sunday
This resonates with me. I’ve gone to school in the two worst sides of Fresno, CA for something like eight years now. Normal high school, then independent study high school where most students were pregnant or girls with children, then college, and now grad is starting up. But I live in the middle of the road area of Fresno and go to an uptown french bakery a lot because I like baking and trying to swipe some secrets. Here’s what I know. Maya Angelou’s a rich woman.
Art isn’t economic, it uses economics to communicate larger things. Only I’ve just started to learn this over the past few years. We’re all like Roman Greeks being preached at by the master pastor in Acts 17. We’re all pulled by the powers and struggles that make life bone hard for all of us at some point. Some streets are preaching for us to thug to find life, and others preach for us to spend ourselves on $5 juice and pretzels. Designer chinese restaurants. Grills that say alcohol = maturity and masculinity. Temples with the boys waving red or the stainless steel counters topped with wheat grass. We all have our conflicts. We all wonder where our hope is. We all have these temples and monuments and baptismal founts in disguise.
I hate it when people relegate worthiness to a profile. Everyone has a voice. And not only that, but if we would ascribe worth via the hope that we have and see as opposed to the struggles we’ve overcome, the voices we let ourselves hear would be potent.
said James
at 6:29pm on Sunday
Josh,
Good stuff. Great poem. I’m not black, mad, or a woman either. I like your site.
Cam
said Cam
at 12:30pm on Monday
I love this poem.
said Charlie
at 12:54pm on Monday
I am black, and a woman, not mad (right now) but damn that was a good poem!
said C
at 1:47pm on Monday
Thank you, C.
said Joshua