WordUp - kalamu’s words

snapshot: dawn in dar es salaam

our intimacy is as subtle as the mottled shade of shell colors

on a warm basket of cayenne scented boiled crabs

or, more likely, the faint hint of spearmint tea

silently seeping while your attention is turned

to spreading the beige soft of cashew butter across

the crisp of one slice of toasted sourdough

which innocently rests near the dark

of seeded unsugared strawberry jam freshly smeared

atop the face of the bread's twin — quiet contentment

is morning within our colorful kitchen where we are

as gaily nude as the golden gleam of early light

streaming through our window diagonally impressing

a translucent tattoo onto both the half sphere of your breast

& the upraised arm of my hand reaching to caress

—kalamu ya salaam

She Shimmy, She Wobble 

“she shimmy, she wobble

she makes me wanna holla”

what happened last night

has had me dreaming all day

what black women got

& have given to the world

is no secret

more erotic than the pleasure flow

of emerald water in a secluded cove

the diving into which sends

wet electric ecstatic tremors

tumble cascading through your body,

come scream shooting out of the trembling

toenail of your left foot’s big toe

& leaves you so satiatedly gasping

for air following the cpr

of her thighs driving you

out of your skull that you swear

you shook hands with the devil

right before tongue kissing god

conjuring up sensual bliss, of course

is not all black women do,

there is far, far more to both

blackness and womanhood than coition

but since this is the way

babies are born, i can’t imagine

much else more important than

honoring the most ancient portal,

our ancestral path,

this primal womanworld

through which the whole

of humanity has passed

created in the exquisitely moist climax

that some scientists rather crudely call

the big bang.

—kalamu ya salaam

time is a funny thing 

there have been times when i found myself with literally nothing i could do like when i would sit at a stop sign for what seemed hours trying to figure out how to straighten out the mess i'd made of my marriage, tayari alone with our five young people & me alone at a stop sign, & eventually i just crawled on--it's not like i was the only man who had ever stumbled at that specific crossroads but when i was there the sun shone all night & i saw no one's shadow but my own forlorn form tangled in the rocks & weeds of my emotional life, & although then was years ago, occasionally i am still shook by an invisible hand, it could be when i pause in mid-embrace as i hold a comrade from back in the days i haven't seen in quite a while & they hurl me into a time machine when they innocently ask with a sincerity so certain "how are tayari & the kids, they must be grown now?" 

there have been times when i felt i was drawing my last breath & about to bankrupt the bank, especially that sunday morning we went to face down the klan & the night before those hooded ones goose-stepping around garish flame cross light had shot at police in algiers without being arrested which we knew meant targets were pinned on all our chests but we had to go to high noon, such poot or get off the pot days give men & women no choice, & then there was the helpless waiting to exhale of the pulse pounding pause on the unforgettable creaking bus stuck to a motionless stop like a lamb patiently awaiting a slaughter somewhere in the middle of nica. libre between rama and managua, the u.s. armed contras on the other side of the hill, hard working people softly mumbling spanish prayers & attempting to hide anything that might call attention to themselves at the bottom a half mile or so from the peak & no sandanista soldier rescuing cavalry anywhere in sight, & me frankly more worried about the photos & taped interviews i might loose than about whether i would die & yet at the same time after having heard gunfire in the nights i was acutely aware, as fred sanford was fond of seriously joking, that this could be the big one, the one where the bullet singes your skin without a so much as an excuse me

there have been times i paused to count the endless ripples on a lake, to note the shape of each leaf on a tree so tall my myopic eyes could not clearly see the top, to merge my being with the azure luminosity of a spring sky, raise my closed eyes to sun warmth & be clearly seen by any passerby as i stand swaying in the breeze mindlessly enjoying the great goodness of nature's beauty 

there have been times i have been so harried with details & overwhelmed by minutiae i must have looked like rockerfeller's accountant around tax time, dragging myself home mentally exhausted, nia reminds me i started to snore during the month we crammed in a half year's worth of work within six weeks when we did the jazzfest posters in 1993 & have not been able since to shake that sleeping disorder 

there have been times i've shared with people events which are now noted in history, our names engraved into the consciousness of both friends & foes so audacious was our doing, we were the flesh levers which moved social mountains, the meaningful moments whose significance sometimes can only be read in hindsight because at the time we were just going with the flow doing what we did & such doing just seemed as right as warm rain & inevitable as darkness following sundown 

there have been times when i have made statements so stupid there must have been a poltergeist in my mouth misguiding my tongue, i remember one utterance & each time i remember the cruelty of those words i pause & apologize, a friend was going for her phd at the same time she was dating this man she hoped to make her husband, a hope most of us recognized as a longer shot that a three legged horse beating secretariat in a derby run, but still she was proud of both & in one twisted indiscreet swoop i flung assassin words across a room: "yeah, then"--meaning when she got her phd--"then, you can buy a husband," oh the demons of disorder danced that night i'm sure, my only consolation is that i have not unconsciously done anything as callous as that since, & though i know each of us has been awarded an asshole of the month award for some act whose erasure is fervently desired, knowledge of others fucking up does nothing to dim the blemishes on the resume of my own heart 

likewise, there have been times when i've made my ancestors proud, particularly my enslaved african ancestors who courageously & creatively figured ways to squeeze banquets from mustard seeds, times i've proved to be worthy of the sacrifices, guidance, love & understanding showered on me by the union of degreeless first black lab tech at va hospital-new orleans, big val ferdinand, whom friends lovingly called "ferd" with the preacher's daughter, quintessential third grade school teacher, inola, my physical & spiritual earth parents, & most significantly times i've caused a child, i've both fathered & inspired, to stick their chest out or cry joy tears to know that their flesh was connected to mine

but that's the way of the world, one day the weight of my big body will be light as dust, blood gone to rain, spirit gone to ghost, then the meaning of my life will be only in the quality & effects of what i did while traveling through, what creations i birthed, what constructs i destroyed or transformed, i will be measured by what i have meant to others & to the overall health of the earth, those nodes are not just mine but indeed are the arc of each generation & every individual, no matter how each of us consumes our time allotment, chewing cautiously deep in rational thought or wolfing the chow down, savoring the taste of each moment or swallowing several mouthfuls as swiftly as we can, fasting or being gluttonous, focused or totally random, the reality is our matter is only a mere morsel in the mouth of galactic motion, what does the sun care what we do with our little piece so small, so overall futile a wrestling with fate & destiny attempting to shape something significant from the brief ticket we purchase in this crazy lottery of living, only people care & that is the sole true way to identify one's humanness, do we care about being here & care about everyone & everything we encounter in time 

time is such a funny thing, whether you think about it or not, whether exciting as tongue kissing an exquisite taboo or boring as olive drab painting of army equipment for the 300th repetition, regardless of what we don't or do, the funny thing is that time is a changing that is constantly the same, is both totally silly & movingly profound, is the depth of blue & the velocity of red, the density of black, the blankness of white & the spectrum scale of all the grays in between, no matter how big a ripple we cause plopping into the cosmic pond eventually the lake's face recomposes into smooth placidity, whether we spill piss or perfume, deposit tears or blood, no matter, the planet receives them all just the same because in the end, just as in the beginning, they all & we all, everything big, little, short & tall, equally slip right on away, ain't if funny?

—kalamu ya salaam

Have You Ever Been A Saxophone

a breath blown

softly intoned through curved metal

tubing blew in dazzling duo with the germane glow of life

gleaming in the gloaming of a gardenia-honeyed evening

have you ever

been a song sung in lyrical falsetto

a melody of sensitivity and sincerity

ear caressing, confessing yes, yes love is a sweet wonder

have you ever

riden a funky rift with the amazing grace

of a soft shoe toe tapper patting out a discreet beat

as you lightly and politely step through the gentle rush

of the erotic movement of slow sucking the tender of ten tan toes

have you ever

nimbly negoitiated complex changes

with moves so smooth you make silk seem rough

as you unerringly address each emotional moment calling coitus

by its familiar names like saying heart be still, skin stop trembling

when i come to see you i'm running cause walking is much too slow

have you ever

been so cool in your ecstatic quiverings

that even your shouts come out as hoarse whisperings

and the grunt of your getting it on evidences itself as a one on

one directional moan, oh baby, come on if you coming, come on

have you ever

been a saxophone, a red saxophone gently blown tenderly as red tyler

resplendently fingering the keys of our feelings, his horn a house

of joy from which dew drops drip as he smiles, winks and slips unobtrusively back into

the mouth of god, the only womb

from which such a magnificent musician could possibly issue

alvin red tyler, a red saxophone

when i grow to full maturity, that's the sound i want to be!

—kalamu ya salaam

WE ARE GUILTY OF

FORGETTING WHO WE ARE

i am in a room

4 walls, ceiling, floor

2 windows, a door

outside the window is the world

no walls, sky, earth

death, birth, & the relative briefness of life

inside is the same as outside

only smaller, less complex

outside is the same as inside

only bigger, more choices & possibilities

there are only three questions to ask/to answer

1. who am i, 2. what is the world

& 3. how do i change, love or leave it

nothing else except

maybe

            god sitting somewhere

            marveling at our transformation, god

            mystified, unable to explain the logic

            of how we have become just like

            the pseudo-human creatures

            who enslaved our ancestors

            wow

            after all the centuries of racist bullshit,

            lynchings, chattel slavery & such that

            we black people have suffered

            who would have thought

            that violent savages

            & impotent religious fanatics

            is what we would be come

            wow

—kalamu ya salaam

poem woke me — 4:50am

what most healthily marks

our passage through this whirl

is never stone

neither forged metal

nor mute masonry

nothing that sits

nor stands

defiant of time

but rather a quick sensation

potent enough to shape

several generations, e.g.

--the breath

of a baby

well loved

whose own grandchildren also

experience the enabling splendidness

of human touch & caring

a spirit flash which

creates space within us

to pause

& be fed

by the gentle trickle

of ancient rain

every life needs

an inner security system

constantly on,

continuously blinking

sensitively set to alert us

to respond to beauty

regardless of the dawn's shape

or our circumstance thereunder

even if appreciating

means awakening

well before

we are finished

sleeping

—kalamu ya salaam

Aft/er

aft

er we've

(or should

i say

i'd)

made

love

i wanted to hold you, but you have bound up from our bed & are gone from my grasp well before i am sufficiently recomposed to open and clasp my arms, so i hold the thought of you

i have just shuddered, exploded myself, funneled liquid missled into your moistness, am still gasping, only partially aware, sight is fuzzy, my thoughts are louder than anything in the air, i'll be all right in a moment

i hear you running the shower in the hall bath, the morning water covering your nakedness where moments earlier i joyfully was

outside the open windows a crow caws in the near distance, two streets away a dog desultorily barks, the wind moves a few leaves

our floors are terrazzo in some rooms, light colored carpet in others, overhead fans, enough wall space to hang art and photographs, rooms full of comfortable places to read

music floats from the small system, most of the time you punch up billie holiday, etta james singing billie holiday, nina simone mournful as billie holiday, or grover washington interpreting pop tunes of his day like billie holiday did for hers, and those sounds wind softly through the house, gently seeking and unerringly finding the ear, the soul

every breath costs some amount of air, sometimes the breathing is painfully evident like the labor of inhaling while running three miles atop the levee five or six mornings out of the week, other times the dues is less obvious: like we can't enjoy our separate lives and simultaneously be together all the time, sometimes i like to read in the same room you are sitting in doing whatever you're doing, other times i'm far away, far, far, away

i could never have written a poem like this twenty years ago, not enough distance to look back and see that the horizon is not just an ever receding, unreachable horizontal line in front of me but also a lengthy, spherical curve that wraps behind, knotted by contraditions and smoothed by the resolution of holding what i can grasp and of letting go what i can't hold

—kalamu ya salaam

FORCES OF NATURE: HOPE SONG

/para Steph & Percival/

do not be bound by your mind

you are more than your thots

we don't just trod down time

mere materialist bricks of sod

we are immanent energy

both of & from the earth

our breath is wind

our flesh is soil

each smile an array

of sun warmth

each tear a droplet

of dew

but there is also another world

which animates us

delve into the forest

of your emotions

squat before the fire

of your imagination

sleep with the reality

of your dreams

our spirit surge is

stronger than computers

the dialectic

of human touch & feelings

an endless motor

self recycling

in the manner of oceans feeding

clouds & rain replenishing sea

while our being is as definite

as the texture of rocks

our mellifluous souls

are majestic

as the stoic millennium

of mountains

our essence is

two in one

both an awesome

aspect of nature

& a spiritual

projection

of life's

creative force

—kalamu ya salaam

haiku #52

a woman's long legged

wetness wrapped round my waist--dreams

truth--i touch myself

—kalamu ya salaam

haiku #16

having lived over

five thousand days together,

molting pains bone deep

—kalamu ya salaam