Black Man Just Like Me

Turn on Cops what do I see?
The cops beating a Black man who looks just like me.

Turn on the evening news what do I see?
Newscasters celebrating the conviction of a Black man who looks just like me.

Turn on MTV what do I see?
Mysogynistic lyrics from a Black man who looks just like me.

Turn on Sports Center what do I see?
Anchors laughing at the loss of a Black man who looks just like me.

Look in the mirror what do I see?
Tears of a Black man who looks just like me.

Preach Fire

the natural function of transformation is fear
the fear of falling
more likely deprived
vindictive against marriage
the myth of education
to be treated
like a servent
saith Basquiat
a slave
humiliated by the cops
wages of sin
a recipe
for a riot
inspiring
fear the
only way to
survive
white people
need to learn
love
of themselves
then all will
be liberated
we know how
sinisterly money is
made
the blood
is either
yours or theirs
makes me
wanna
get the
gun
the world
is White and
we are Black
The Great
White Judge
The Fear
of hope
we cannot
defend against
fear only
face them
the pimp
and the preacher
words are
the same
slain by the spirit of
guilt and fear
heaven would
not hear
me
through blindness
find salvation
how to break
the father
chord
freedom through isolation
and immobalization
the oneness
of worship
for me it was
Plato
ha ha,
tracts
suck
my goodness
very dualistic
he is me
not really
save the children
of Ham
so startling
to see good non-Christians
yep, the lack
of sensuality
in Xtianity
sleazy preachers
including
himself
yes, the blood
can't wash your
blackness
away
Yes. The
church of
hatred I
to know
(star)
we are
this is why
white hippies
love Baldwin
fear connected
to hope
connecting
evangelism
+
colonialism
and start speaking to Her

break it down family. black history month 'bout done kame an' left. a new month rises but bodies swinging still echoe in the trees. i started this month reaching for something new in the ancient. i wanted to see what i needed reminding of. i picked up the fire next time by james baldwin. i used to aspire to write like him, but i love poetry too much. as i was reading i discovered that my pen was talking with and back to his wordship. i hope to benefit all who have and will read the one with some my prosetic review. where to start with the review?baldwin emphasized assumptions:

1. before all critics you are blameless
2. all but whites are silent and sullen
3. your actions determine your gods

a letter to endangered black male youth:

if you don't believe their lies, nothing can stop you.
there is that which reparations cannot touch.
the law be damned.
the pain of this world becomes clearer
when we realize the audacity white people have
when other whites are suffering and their willingness
to shift that suffering
how little of this has changed
prison industrial complexion.

Harvey Milk and Meister Eckhart Picnic in The Castro

Went to see Milk for the second time at The Castro Theater last night. This burst forth from me on the long drive home. Hope it blesses you.

Queen, Prophet and Priestess

I’m single
But G-d’s been courting me a bit
Slipping into my dreams
Like a shameless lover

____Outside,
__________It’s America,
____But in here,
___________________it’s the time of humid darkness,
___________________the color of womb,
_________Like the sound of the Creator
____Making love to Wisdom
_________And midwives
____________________Swimming galaxies
For the last five years and 9 months

_______________________________I’ve heard you tell stories
_________Of kisses that create spirituality
_________And wine and smokes that toke our artistic renditions
______________Of Saint Francis Missions and Jesuit wishings

_____These gaudy Castro walls
____________________We know whose splotches supplied the paint
_____We know the sane breaks
____________________Of window pain fakes
_____Harvey, but to you he’s a capital Milk
_____Supplying inspiration like estrogen
To Gragical Theology Priestesses
_______________Shifting light
_______________in centers

And here’s where wounds come in
_________________________Through wood imprinted
_________________________And subtle growths stinted
___________On the secrets at the heart
_________________________________________of the dark arts
___________Hand painted
___________into
________________a new
__________________language and color
With no longer a fear of the other
But rather
The afterlife collaborated
to half the strife
____________________Of those bongos in the sky
__________________________Now ain’t that fly

Word Life: On Ash Wednesday

I got my ashes today at church and I was thinking about the other night when I was at Michelle's house and she showed me the ashes of her grandmother, in a ziplock bag, on her altar. And I was transfixed, because I had never seen human ashes before. I had never seen Michelle's grandmother before either, but I had seen her pictures, and read Michelle's poems about her. As if articulating something I could not she offered to let me hold them. I couldn't speak, I just held out my hand. Michelle spoke some words, "...don't they look like shells..." I couldn't catch most of it, I just kept thinking, "This was a breathing, living human, just like me, once." And then, I thought of Ezekiel 37, the bones that dance, how G-d promised that none would die in vein. And I asked if I could read it to her, and Michelle said yes. And I did. And it felt good.

That passage had so much meaning to me because just the week prior I had attempted to breathe new life in it. To give it modern rhythm, rhyme and relevance. This is what I came up with. All you alternate-theists (including the atheists, yeah Mia, I'm calling you out) forgive the G-d language. Replace it with your own favorite term. Anyway, like to hear it hear it go:

Word Life

From my bubble of excess
I peeped lands of rubble
Where children try to shake awake dead mothers
And families struggle
And G-d said to me,
“Can these people live?”
and I said, “Why ask me?
What have I to give?”
Said G-d, “Because it was with your resources,
And lack of attentiveness that they die.
So it is with your voice that I shall raise them high.”
And with that I was lifted in the sky,
Where I peeped down to see that which was dry,
Flooded with the veins of the ocean,
And me,
With my choked emotion,
No longer restrained,
I let go,
And watched the spirit of G-d flow from me,
Flooding the plain.
Like, “Bring it, this new song I gave you,
Sing it.
This paradise I created for you,
I meant it.
It was never my will that you’d be a slave who,
Had no place in it.”
And a voice shouted, “Preach!”
So from within I reach,
“Our purpose here, is to create a new song,
No matter what you fear, we must right the old and new wrongs,
Heed the path we must walk along,
And call to the past,
From which our strength is drawn,
And our angst moves on.”
And G-d said, “While you stand shocked,
At how the very thought,
Of your hands bring strife.
Don’t get caught, and worry not,
For my very words bring life.”
“Preach!”
So I said, “You who thought you were dead,
You looking to the sky through your grandmother’s head,
Find the truth instead,
Placed in a grave,
And the bed,
Of a slave.
Even though,
Sometimes so far we roam,
We can’t even go,
To the place we thought was home.
G-d’s presence we can know,
Through the speech of a poem.
Is Word Life.”

Rumi Remix

I've been feeling the need to create more poetry but haven't been able to get there. So I decided to help myself by remixing a Rumi. I have two versions of the "That Lives In Us" poem. The first one came out a little more sinister than I wanted it to, so I decided to do it again with a little more positivity. But I like them all. The first is the original. Peace,

Tai Amri

That Lives In Us

If you put your hands on this oar with me,
They will never harm another, and they will come to find
They hold everything you want.

If you put your hands on this oar with me, they would no longer
Lift anything to your
Mouth that might wound your precious land—
That sacred earth that is your body.

If you put your soul against this oar with me,
The power that made the universe will enter your sinew
From a source not outside your limbs, but from a holy realm
That lives in us.

Exuberant is existence, time a husk.
When the moment cracks open, ecstasy leaps out and devours space;
Love goes mad with blessings, like my words give.

Why lay yourself on the torturer’s rack of the past and future?
The min that tries to shape tomorrow beyond its capacities
Will find no rest.

Be kind to yourself, dear—to our innocent follies.
Forget any sounds or touch you knew that did not help you dance.
You will come to see that all evolves us.

That Dies In Us
(Dark Prophet Remix)

If we remove our hands from this artful bread making,
We will artfully create destruction, and we will find
We destroy everything we love.

If we remove our hands from this artful bread making, everything that enters us
Will break our teeth and grow cancer in our stomachs—
Increasing scar tissue that
Suffocates the land.

If we remove our souls from this artful bread making,
The power that made the universe will be confined
To a capsule, sold for $15 a pill,
And depleting our every inner resource.

Insane in our resistance, over identifying with our bubbles.
When we cease to crack open, black holes devour our face;
War-Porn our religion, from lies we live.

The past and the future live only in burned books,
The mind seeking de-evolution and life beneath its potential
Is dead at best.

We will be our best enslavers of our innocent mistakes.
Loving only the sounds and touch that keep us from dancing.
We refuse to see.

That Dies In Us
(Tai Amri Remix)

Don’t be afraid to break the skin of your soft hands,
All that dies is reborn, purposed only to heal,
We hold the sun.

Don’t be afraid to break the skin of your soft hands,
For in them lies the juices,
That mend the wounds of the earth,
The mirror behind us.

Don’t be afraid to break the shell of your soul,
To expel sacred biometric desires
Placing fires in the auras
In today’s tomorrows.

Infinite in the void, despair is omniscient.
Though sealed, divinity injects knowledge of death;
To confound the eternal, and release stagnation, like translation.

Why not submit yourselves to the wounds of today?
It is the hearts nature
To rest in what is.

All sins decay.
Forget the distraction to dig up the dead.
Contemplate the death of self.

confessions of a homophobic black man

i've had a little while to sit with my last post and the responses i've had to it and conversations i've had since then. i believe that in the passing of proposition 8, not only has a deep wound been exposed, but a deep wound has also been deepened, and i want this wounding to end. in my last blog i focused on the pain and frustration of feeling the blame for proposition 8 being directed towards my people (not that all people aren't my people, but i'm speaking here of the people who share my racial identity). but as i'm sitting with this pain, i am also reminded of some of the feelings of my glbtq loved ones, who correctly point out that while the blame rests on no ONE, some of the accusations are in fact true. so i sat through church today, amongst gay couples wrestling with the fear that their marriages might at some point be anulled (please correct my terminology if it's wrong, i'm a minister not a lawyer) and i felt a conviction to speak to the place where the wounding has occured.

i cannot speak to all black communities, but in mine, gender and sexuality violence, both verbal and physical, was normalized. i suffered from it, and i perpetuated it. i repressed my own queerness, so as to be seen acceptable, and to distance myself from the "real" queers. i treated women and effeminite men (i really hate that word, if someone has a better please offer it) as less than, so to prove myself more worthy of the term masculine, even when i saw the faults in the ways that masculinity was being defined. i preached a gospel of homosexual condemnation, even when i did not believe that queer folk were less-than in the truth of my heart. i've laughed at homophobic remarks and jokes, and though i can't remember a time when i did, i'm sure i've made them myself. i've distanced myself from men, both straight and queer, so as not to seem queer myself. and worst of all, i have remained silent as my queer family was being brutalized in all sections of society.

my homophobic reactions need to be acknowledged, and taken responsibility for, but there also needs to be an acknowledgment that it did not begin with me, my family, my race, or any other race or religion. they begin with the believing of the lie that there is in fact an "other." one reason i love jesus so much is that he spent so much of his ministry trying to correct this misperception. when we react out of the fear of the other, we see why he focused so much energy there. i have believed the lies that i am in fact other and less than, and thus have not spoken out against homophobia because of this belief. i have believed that because of my other status, i had to create "lesser others" in order to be "more" human, even when i believed i could not be "fully human." others have told me that a black man's voice will be silenced, mentally or physically, before it can be heard. others have told me that even when i speak with my voice, it doesn't matter, because i'm just "different" and "real" black men aren't like me. others have told me that if i want to be worthy of human respect, i need to "walk like a man." others have told me that "real men just don't behave like that, just don't show vulnerability, just don't need the help of anyone else." and i've believed them. there is no group that my belief in these lies has not affected. please forgive me for all the lies that i've believed, and all the lies i have spread. in peace,

tai amri