Whirlwind Publishing

i don’t know how it happened but the plants I’ve been tending for the last two months turns out not to be the bean plants i could’ve sworn i planted. no, it turns out it’s a weed called pigweed. i read the name and thought to myself "figures – even in my own garden, i can’t get away from pigs".

I don’t like being surrounded – either by weeds or by pigs so I decided to see what I can find out about pigweed. Turns out pigweed is some kind of catchall phrase that can or can not be pigweed. It’s all very confusing.

What’s not confusing is the name Amaranth.

Amaranthus, collectively known as amaranth, is a cosmopolitan genus of herbs. Approximately 60 species are recognized, with inflorescences and foliage ranging from purple and red to gold. Members of this genus share many characteristics and uses with members of the closely related genus Celosia.

Although several species are often considered weeds, people around the world value amaranths as leaf vegetables, cereals, and ornamentals. A traditional food plant in Africa, amaranth has the potential to improve nutrition, boost food security, foster rural development and support sustainable land care.

Still trying to figure out how the bean plant turned into weeds that somehow grew in a line like they had been planted, I started to realize it might be edible. I knew – because one of my neighbors told me and I confirmed it – that edible purslane (also known as pigweed) grew in my garden.

I haven’t yet tried it. I can’t quite get over my nervous about eating weeds. I spent a significant amount of time researching amaranth – trying to make as sure i could that it was safe to eat – and give to my son to eat. While OCD’ing on the research, I read something that immediately calmed my fears:

In the Caribbean, the leaves are called callaloo and are sometimes used in a soup called pepperpot soup.

My stepfather was Jamaican and one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten is his callaloo (when he didn’t add nasty ass saltfish to it). I’ve had batches of it expressed to me wherever I’ve lived – that’s how much I loved it.When I look at how it grew and think about how he also grew callaloo in his garden, I wonder if he was somehow – spiritually responsible for its orderly presence in my garden.

Whether he was or wasn’t, I can’t call. But I can and will eat.

****************

1st, 3rd & 4th picture by Tichaona

Purslane pic: http://www.ppdl.purdue.edu/ppdl/weeklypics/3-17-08.html

Morning is not my talking time. For one, I’m disgruntled over having to be mommy right off the bat. Before my eyes are properly unclotted from sleep, I’m running lists through my mind. No peanut butter. No jam. Very little honey. No cheese. Damn! That means lunchables – which means a 7am run to the grocery store.

So when I have to talk, I’m brief: “Sankara – get up!”

Then I begin my morning perambulations round the apartment for the things to go into his backpack: towel, swimming trunks, flip flops, lunch bag, damnit!

“Sankara, get up!”

On my next rotation, I hear voices from the Cosby show. I slow down long enough to hear mention of church. ‘Please god, no’ is my next thought.

He comes when I’m in the kitchen. Having found a jar of peanut butter on a top shelf, I’m smearing it on the bread –relieved I don’t have to drive to the store.

“’What is church?”

“A place people go to pray.”

“I know – we don’t go to church. Why don’t we go to church?”

“Because I don’t think you have to go to church to pray”. Actually, I say “because when I was a child, my mother told me she wanted me to be free to make up my own mind and when I was an adult, it didn’t make sense to me to go to church. So I didn’t. “ Halfway through my resentfully muttered diatribe, I realize he doesn’t understand.

I just want to continue dripping the honey on the peanut butter but I know we’ll be having this conversation again – the way we’ve had it before. In the midst of castigating myself for having a child as well as congratulating myself for having just one, the solution comes to me.

“You know why we don’t have to go to church? Because god is inside of you – and that god is good and positive – like you were when your friend fell at the park and you were worried. You don’t need to go outside to pray to something that’s inside.”

“Is there a bad god?”

(goddamnit, tichaona, don’t you ever learn?)

Sighing, I answer, yes of course there’s a bad god, everything comes in twos: up/down, in/out, male/female. People call the bad god the devil.

Then he starts to tell me how he “knows all about it”. He saw a show on TV where there was a guy “in a gown with an oval above his head” and “a guy all in red with a tail and a pitchfork”.

Yes, the guy all in red is the devil, the bad god. When you don’t want to do things that are good for you, that’s the bad god in you leading the way.

And then I hit on a piece of brilliance to tie it all together!

“You know why your mind is your greatest weapon?”

“No.”

“Because it allows you to choose – to decide whether your good god or bad god is going to be in charge; whether you’re going to care about your friends or have a fit because you don’t get to avoid something that’s good for you.

Days of wine and roses

Were never a part of my twenty-four

Except once.

Understanding my need to sip and sniff,

He brought me Ethiopian honey wine

And Somali Rose incense.

Understanding his need to not return

to breaking his mother’s back,

I stood on oak-peopled corners

And entreated first wonders

To catch the aroma of Afrika.

One hundred and thirty two moons

Beyond my winter after the summer of love birth,

He was my alpha.

Joyfully submitting, I laid under him

Matching him movement for movement.

My lips curved in a half moon when he said,

Sis, they told you wrong, you can dance.

I loved him so much I kissed him to the point

I was able to laughingly two-step embarrassment

When my sister, known as Semi-Love, said

I heard you two smacking lips in the kitchen.

He was the beginning of my womanhood

But I didn’t know I was the end of his manhood

Until my allegiance to my then prison-bound husband

Made me say good-bye.

Several copper-wire conversations later,

There was so much sorrow in his voice

When he said, if I knew you wanted to be

A married woman, I would’ve married you.

Devoid of my essence, he took a header off

Off a rickety staircase. I didn’t believe anything

Anybody told me, thinking it was a ploy

to get me to focus on my husband

Until I called his long-time sister friend.

She heard me say my name and went silent

And I knew…my alpha was dead.

Grief is perennial. It walks with me daily.

A blackberry bush. It crept its way up a wooden fence that separated the house I was looking to rent a portion of from its neighbor. It’s what made me take the living space that, in a previous incarnation, had to be a closet or, at best, a pantry. I was ready to go in, close the door and start looking at the woman in the mirror after the mess I made of my life in San Francisco.

Not yet knowing a single soul in Oakland, however, I was soon going back to SF for favored activities: getting high and drinking. But I knew it had to end the day I distanced myself enough to see the her that was I on the phone with “my” married man – crying; and to also see/hear my friends whispering about me. I couldn’t stand the vision and couldn’t envision any other way of being – in SF. So I relocated – across the Bay to Oaktown – where I grew up – where I became a woman.

Oakland, where I saw black people everywhere; unlike in San Francisco where, unbeknownst to me, we were being gentrified out of the city; unlike Boston where we were corralled into certain areas of the city. Oakland, panther country, blackberry bushes, a rose bush-laden walkway hidden in the middle of the city and schools with Katrina-like trailers on the grounds for the “overflow” of students. Oakland, where I decided I would never again straight my hair – not that big of a decision for me because I could count on one hand the number of times I had “processed” my hair; where the question of my identity (African) was settled once and for all. Oakland which I loved yet still had to kill.

The Death of California

Flash back to the time
when death row was a death sentence
and not a record label
featuring the hottest gangsta rappers.
Turn the clock back fourteen years
and revisit the streets of San Francisco.

A city split up into districts
and I found myself living in the one
called the tenderloin
although there was nothing tender
about the loins found there.
Laotians as dark as puerto ricans
pimps as murderously greedy as leopold
and refugees from pretty san francisco
were some of what I found there.

Join me on my sojourn down memory lane.
Avoid the cracks in the sidewalks
and the crack held in hands
closed tighter than fists
until the money is handed over.
Hear the soft refrain of coca, coca
whispered with south of the border accents
because this part of memory lane
has diverged to the mission district.
Oldest part of the city, first home of the spanish
who gave the area its "I’m a conquistador
but I still love Christ" name
and now home to members of
every spanish-speaking population
in the western hemisphere
crowded together on numbered streets:
undocumented scarfaces
peruvian flutists making music out of air
ecuadorians I mistake for asians
followers of che and pancho villa
girls living la vida loca
la migra, la policia
and cinco de mayo street festivals
where all the bars open early
and offer discounts on shots of tequila
and one year, I got drunker than drunk
and stumbled and fell
for coco and her flame.

Street hustlers of the lowest order
they bypassed the soft allure of coca, coca
and went straight for the hard sounding stuff.
Crack itself wasn’t enough however.
Crack had an addiction to itself in liquid form
a liquid form known as cisco.
Crack, cisco, coco
and her flame who had the same name
as a version of the bible
became my roommates
who never made their rent
because their addictions left them too dysfunctional
to do more than dig through garbage
and exchange their food stamps for crack
since that was the only thing they hungered for.

I blame eek-a-mouse
for transporting me back to the apartment
where his music was the soundtrack
to homemade sangria parties
and weed dazed days
laced every now and then
with the purest variety of acid
sold in golden gate park
where food not bombs
ladled out free bowls of soup
where girls didn’t wear flowers in their hair
but instead cursed me out for ruining the vibe
of santana’s annual free concert in the park
when my bottle of vodka fell and splashed all over
their wannabe hippie gear.

Striding the streets of aztlan
in the grip of a california dream
which I awoke from when I turned my back
on the go west young woman mentality
and accepted that california
wasn’t the la-la land portrayed by hollywood.
California was the land that gave birth to the panthers
and the panthers gave birth to a sense of purpose
which I inherited when I relocated to oakland
after two years in san francisco.
I stopped looking at my wrist
and started looking at the woman in the mirror
and what I saw
led me to the understanding
that refusing to die is a form of rebellion.

I stopped living in california
and started living in occupied aztlan.
I developed a mentality described as relentless
because I was on don’t stop, get it, get it kick
which had me flipping pages nonstop
while my feet stepped and my heart beat
to the drums of uhuru.
My soul united with the will of the revolution
and out of my barrel of my pen came slogans like
the contract with america was signed 500 years ago
with the blood of indigenous and african people.

And when I left occupied atzlan
and moved back to looted eastern shores
alongside assata’s knowledge:
that the revolution gave me more than I could ever give it
I carried with me the butterfly’s effect.

excerpted from still living on my feet

even though she’s not oj [aka didn't kill anybody and you know, she's not gonna go into a hotel and try to "steal back" her job] she does in fact bring to mind the oj trial.

i still remember sitting in my oakland living room and yelling, dancing around when the not guilty was reported.

this photo demonstrates how the response to the verdict was split across racial lines. i know "today is a different day" and whatnot but I felt like the black women in the photo yesterday following all the uproar.

i was proud that she stood up for herself and was clear as day while doing so. i laughed heartily watching folks from anderson cooper to that white man who posted the video (i see white people as white people first so his political leanings don’t mean that much to me. he was doing a very white [privilege] thing by posting that video.) scrambling to whitewash their racism.

pride aside, it does bear saying that sherrod is not the "change" we’re all looking for. black people/women are still gonna get fired on the flimiest of excuses. and silence will surround such firings. life under white nationalist america will go on as "usual".

but still, for that brief, moment, watching the news was nice. seeing the extremely pissed off look in the secretary of agriculture’s eyes this morning was priceless. hearing about her job offer {which i hope she doesn’t take but suspect she will] was also nice.

and you know what’s even nicer – although more dangerous: seeing white people like o’reilly and his ilk still saying if it was a white man/person, they wouldn’t be getting job offers and apologies.

LOL!

Damn straight…because more than likely an 82 yr old black woman wouldn’t be coming out to say [insert name] helped me save my farm. i still have it because of [insert name] and for damn sure, [insert name] wouldn’t be saying "i was saying what i said to indicate how much i have grown in understanding".

and for those who might not get that race is a card that can sometimes trump political leanings, listen to condoleezza rice’s as she acknowledges obama’s presidential victory over gone daddy gone {aka bush}.

the other day i was exploring wordpress.com’s poetry blogs. scrolling through the pages, i came across this poem. i liked the way it tied the planting season (april) and the harvesting season (august) to the mental state and facial expressions of someone who lives in the New Orleans/Gulf Coast area.

i was interested in the challenge zouxzoux referenced over at big tent poetry. so i went over there and found this week’s challenge:

What is your favorite poem? What about it makes it your favorite? Does it contain an image that rocks your poetry world? Does it provide a realization that changes you? Do you admire its poetic devices (metaphor, alliteration, repetition, form, etc.)?

Whatever it is you like about your favorite poem, try to use that in a poem of your own.

I started thinking about it. Do I have a favorite poem? Is it possible to pick out one and say this is it, this is the poem that, for me, stands head and shoulders above all others?

the one name that stands out as having such a way with words is ntozake shange. lines from her poetry and choreopoems move through my head randomly. even typing this just now, i can easily remember various lines and stories contained with in for colored girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf.

speaking of for colored girls, it’s been announced that tyler perry will be directing the film version of the tony-award winning play. why do i think perry as director does not bode well for the adaptation? in fact, i’m actually scared of the whole idea. i think it’ll end in the same annals as jonathan demme-directed beloved, definitely one of my favorite novels ever; although not my favorite toni morrison novel. that honor is reserved for tar baby.

so it will be a poem from for colored girls. next stream i’ll try and answer some of the questions. the poem is due friday/the weekend.

An eyelash flicks
And the net is cast.

Infinitesimal sound
A flap and flash of color

Swallowed by netting.
No concern for the effects
Of interconnectedness;
Only dead things pretty
And docile.

i haven’t streamed in a few days. i’ve felt a resurgence of my muse and now that my late spring computer woes are over, i’m returning to my first love, poetry. i remember the time when i avoided the word poet. i preferred “writer”. still do but now, i’m okay with poet. it’s what i do – what i write. during my early years in oakland, i would try to take the poetic snippets that came to me and try to make them a short story or the beginnings of a novel; anything but poetry. this, though, i was a poetry reader and listened to poetry every day (in the form of hip hop). in a way, i felt stifled (a word forever my favorite because of archie bunker – yeah yeah yeah, he was a product of his age – and he grew out of his age – and honestly, edith would’ve gotten on my nerves too…although my word choice would’ve been “shut it” and i wouldn’t have called her dingbat – out loud. that’s rude. lmao)

anyway, poetry. my first love. the first poetry book that made an impression on me (outside of high school, which is when i began to get into it) was alice walker’s horses make a landscape look more beautiful. the poem that stands out in my memory is first, they said.

i went looking online to find the poem. as i expected it was hard. not only was it hard but upon reaching alice walker’s official website, i read the following:

“My friend and spirit helper, the magical artist, Shiloh Sophia McCloud, who is co-creating this website, had originally planned to offer dozens of my published poems, already available, though often in mutilated form, on the Internet. Because of complicated copyright rules and laws, meant originally for my protection, I cannot protect my poems that
are already on the Internet, nor can I offer them in the body of my present work.  Therefore, wherever a poem would have been, I have simply left its title.  These poems can be found in one of my six volumes of poetry, available in the library or from the website bookstore.”

huh? because of complicated copyright laws she can not offer her own poems on her own website; poems which happen to be already available on the internet – albeit “in a mutilated form”. why didn’t these complicated copyright laws stop those people from posting her work? methinks “alice shenanigans”. why not just say “i want you to buy my books”. i can respect that. a technologically proficient, magical artist/spiritual helper and complicated copyright laws just sounds strange and bizarre.

i’d like people to buy my books too but what i’m realizing is that i’m not going to be able to go out and hawk my books in the way that i’d like. my primary responsibility is to be a mother, a good mother. I tailor my writing around his schedule and am thankful he is in camp during the weekdays so i can focus fully on my words. it’s times like these when i’m glad that i started reading alice walker at such a young age. essays such as one child’s of one’s own. it grounds me nowadays and considering that my child has started to drop not so subtle hints (you spend more time with the computer than with me. i think you like the computer more than you like me) about my time spent writing and reading. all i can think is “hot damn ho here we go again” [one of my favorite rap sayings ever]. this coming from a child who no matter how many times i return him to his bed in the middle of the night always, ALWAYS wakes up right beside me!

for instance [yes, this is about to turn into a venting session], i wrote most of a personal pantheon overnight but it wasn’t finished by the time my lil black star woke. so i set him up with the x-box and said “i’m going to finish writing so you can play games or watch saturday morning cartoons”. now it should be clear that virginia woolf’s room of her own isn’t a reality for me. i write on the couch in the front room – no separate, isolated aesthetic for me. so star found what he wanted and “hot damn ho here we go again”: mommy, look at this, mommy let me pause it so you can look at this, mommy did you see? mommy mommy mommy, like this commercial:

STAR if you don’t STOP, i’ll turn the x-box OFF and you’ll be sent to your ROOM. [SHIT – this word said in my head. i don’t [consciously] swear in front of children.

speaking of star, this stream has just been dammed [aka he’s awake].

Yesterday, I was roaming around wordpress.com’s poetry/writing blogs and came across this site. The word that caught my eye was heliolatry. I knew helio meant the sun so it’s just a hope, skip and jump from there to sun idolatry. As someone who thinks ancient people’s deification of the sun makes a whole lotta sense, I love anything having to do with Ra. I posted a comment on the site saying I would write around the word and I did. Below is the result.

Personal Pantheon

Heat seeker, I am
Supplicant but never prone.

Heliolatry coded
Inside melanin.
Daily devotional
round Ra’s
Earth-rooted
Temples.

A marriage, a synergy
Of  Atum-Ra, Mami Wata
and
the endlessly giving goddess
Earth.

my child asked me the other day if someone we’re familiar with "thinks well"? i laughed and laughed. what a question from a six yr old! after i finished laughing (and calling everyone i know) i asked him "do you want the truth or a child appropriate answer?

he’s my child: he wanted the truth.

"some people just have ‘boo-boos’ in their head but don’t think they have boo=boos in their head. they think you have the boo-boo”. my son looked at my like i was crazy. i started laughing. “it’s true!” 

of course, being a child, he still wants to talk to this person. the innocence of children. such innocence is admirable but in the real world such innocence is at a premium. i can’t have my lil black star be a sitting duck for the irresponsible people {aka boo-boo heads”} of the world but what i’m realizing and accepting [with sincere thanks to the universe] is that it’s not my battle. it’s his.

my psyche will not be the landscape on which this “battle” will be fought; his will. my only duty to him in this matter is to make sure he comes through without a boo-boo of his own in his precious head.