The Book Meme

I'll have to admit. I'm not much one for forwarding chain letters, jokes, and the like, and I normally wouldn't have engaged in this book Meme except that I got tagged from both sides. (Thanks Blue and Collin!) So, here's my contribution, but I'm not going to tag 5 people as instructed. In fact, I'm not tagging anybody. (At least, not in public.) However, if you're visiting and you want to post your answers to the questions, feel free to do so. My days ofprostitution, er, solicitation are over. ;-)


ONE BOOK THAT CHANGED YOUR LIFE: Aloud: Voices from the Nuyorican Poets Café, ed. Miguel Algarin, Bob Holman.
IN 1994, WHEN I was teetering alone on a ledge 7 stories above Margaret Mitchell Square, this book saved my life. Not physically, but certainly spiritually. It reminded me I had a literary bloodline, a family, and gave me the courage to stand for what I believed – the courage to perform. There are so many books I could name here but this was probably the greatest literary discovery I ever made. Thanks, Miguel and Bob, for having the vision to pull this anthology together. ___________________________________________________
ONE BOOK THAT YOU'VE READ MORE THAN ONCE:Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry by Mildred Taylor.
I READ THIS in the 4th grade. I think it was the first book I ever read about a Black family – and in the South, no less! And so I read it over and over to hear stories like my mother and her sisters would tell, around gingham tablecloths, eating fried fish.

Even at a young age, I was drawn to the balance of the emotional and the socio-political themes in this book. Love my mission or hate my mission, blame Mildred Taylor for it!
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ONE BOOK YOU'D WANT ON A DESERT ISLAND: The Essential Neruda by Pablo Neruda.
IF I HAD TO BE stranded away from human touch, I’d definitely want Neruda to remind me of the sensuality of the natural world.
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ONE BOOK THAT MADE YOU LAUGH: Gorilla, My Love by Toni Cade Bambara. NOBODY'S BITE is like Bambara's. If Alice Walker was the champion for Zora Neale Hurston, I hope to one day be a champion for Toni Cade Bambara.

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ONE BOOK THAT MADE YOU CRY: Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. THE LAST PARAGRAPH IS ONE of the most chilling I've ever read. I shed tears because suddenly I felt like a foreigner in my own body and knew that I could never look at Africa with the same eyes again. This book moved me to take a West African penname.
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ONE BOOK YOU WISH HAD BEEN WRITTEN: Ralph Ellison's follow-up to Invisible Man. Obviously, he was a perfectionist of the worst possible kind. And not that I believe he could improve upon Invisible Man, but it would have been interesting to see him try - not in what has come to be known as Juneteenth, but in an actual finished product.
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ONE BOOK TWO BOOKS YOU WISH HAD NEVER BEEN WRITTEN: I couldn’t choose between these two, so I’m cheating (I sooooo enjoy this):

1) B-Boy Blues by James Earl Hardy. TRASH, JAMES, ARE you listening? Trash! And you had the nerve to write a – Trash! – follow-up? You might’ve better served as a pizza-delivery-plotting porn director. Put down your pen and get yourself a video camera.

On second thought, maybe not. James Baldwin is turning ovah in his grave, honey. And then you had the nerve to write more sequels? Tr-tr-tr-tr-tr-tr-trash! You make E. Lynn Harris look like William Faulkner!

Girl, give it a rest. ______________________________________________________

2) The Cantos by Ezra Pound. IF ALEX TREBEK WROTE poetry, it would be this. Any book of poems that requires over 800 pages of footnoting should have never been written. Yeah, I said it. Ezra, I am blaming you singly for why modern Americans hate poetry. You. Ezra. Poetry. Hate. I. We. All.

I'll take ERUDITION for $200. How could you write a document as lucid as ABC of Reading and then write this? I'll take CHINESE ENCRYPTION for $600. Maybe all you needed was a good double-date with Alex Trebek to get this out of your system. Then, we wouldn’t've all had to suffer through this garrulous doorstop.

How's that for a daily double!
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ONE BOOK YOU'RE CURRENTLY READING:
Antipoems by Nicanor Parra.
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ONE BOOK YOU'VE BEEN MEANING TO READ:
The Known World by Edward P. Jones.

To Receive

Alan Sugar, an audience member at Java Monkey last Sunday, wrote this poem after seeing my performance. As it is a really special moment for me, I thought I'd share it with you (after obtaining Alan's permission, of course.)

As an artist, for a decade you grow this vision, hoping others might see it, and then, what a joy when it gets reflected back to you like this - the highest compliment anyone could give a poet: a poem.

Thanks, Alan. This just might carry me through the rest of my life. Enjoy.

Ayodele at Java Monkey

Vulnerable you appear to us, and yet you are commanding—
Like a laborer who bows before the field, so strong, so understanding.

You kneel so silently on the earth as it softly sings.
Your words are like the shape of birds testing their new wings.

You take the truth and uncover it, revealing all its holes.
And in the mist of twilight, you gather up lost souls.

Humble and proud, your dance is life,
The sea is your son, the heavens your wife.

It is black. It is bright. It is all that you give.
The angels all flutter around the home where you live.

Day 7: Rx

                      This blue pill
stops the virus from replicating. Take 5 every
twelve hours with food, or milk, else
it won’t work at all. This white pill
works with it, but causes dreams
which some can't bear. The blue
and white are your Miracles. Never miss a dose
for the rest of your life.
                        Take this one
with lots of water: 6, twice a day,
to root out your pneumonia.
IMPORTANT: Don’t stop till the end
of 6 weeks. If the cough comes back,
you could literally drown
in your own phlegm. Also, stay out
of the sun.
                      Grind
this big white pill each morning.
Dissolve it in water or juice; it’s too
big to swallow. It will be bitter, but it’ll
make the dark rashes
on your torso and face
disappear. It is not to be confused
with this pill, which is for thrush –
to relieve the raw white patches
covering your tongue
and the insides of your mouth.
This pill is for the diarrhea those pills
will cause. Take two, as needed, after each
loose stool. Oh, & this iron pill
in case you have fatigue.
                     This brown pill
will help you regain your weight, but it may
raise your cholesterol. These pills will
counter that. Remember, you must eat
or the blue pill won’t work. One
more thing:

Be careful –
be very careful
when you take the blue pill
the first time: In some,
it causes hypersensitivity—
high fever, bloody
stool, aggressive rashes, and (if not stopped
immediately)
           death.
Call us without delay
should any of this
begin to happen. Take care. Here’s
your bag.

*
Next?

Day 6: Journal Entry

I
I will
I will not
I will not kill
I will not kill my
I will not kill my self
I will not kill my self any

more

Day 1: The Diagnosis

You

are HIV-positive: This is not
a death sentence. This is not
the end of the world. Not

the end of your life. It is
a beginning. It is your walk
to walk. You will not walk

alone. For the rest
of your days, your blood
will tell us all. Imagine one drop:

When negative, your viral load
was zero. Today, it is 196
thousand. Which says you’ve had this
a very long time.

In this same drop,
T-cells are your soldiers.
A negative man’s army?
About one thousand. Yours?
12. Which means your body

has already surrendered.

I am not here
to alarm you, but you cannot
leave here and continue
to live like this

*
There is help, but we can't help you
here. Take this card.
G_d,
your eyes. You’re so
young. We see so many
like you. Why do you
wait

so long?

Day Negative 7 (Mother's Day)

C_llin, since I feel like I shorted you on new material, I decided to post the 1st of the 4 AIDS poems I didn't read at Java last night, "Day Negative 7: Mother's Day."

16 May 2000. He is flying (or falling) – no – lying
to himself. Death traps his breath in a lode-
stone BOX (N.) -->
           corner: a predicament from which
           graceful escape is impossible
Who owns the air? the voice asks. Who,
the Earth? He
                          fights God with eight
translucent arms. The thick yellow fog
is boiling. Boils
for eyes. Swirling black columns
of smoke rise like stilts as he walks
Who owns the flowers? When he climbs
into the coffin, Venus
flytraps of lightning
open: knock-knock. All bone. Who owns
the sea? Can you? Another black O
on his thigh. A pair, a MOON (N.) -->
           a small body in orbit about a planet
(I am coming back.)
K.S., night sweats, an opera
of coughing. A coffin. Too short. Pulse?
*
Pulse? One hundred
thousand black ants scurry
through the artery. No
escape. Who owns this
body? Stars
over Miami. Hands
in every crevice. Breath.
Stone. Mother. Who owns
light? Reach. No flowers but
(I am coming back soon.)
gravestones. First
son. Last
light. First
love. Last
LUST (N.) -->
           one of the seven deadly
           sins.
Future. Face it. A bouquet
of injections. ER.
Stretcher.
Your status, sir, your status?

Java Monkey & Jungle Jitters (or, Ayo, the Punk A$$ed B*tch)

I REALLY APPRECIATE ALL OF YOU WHO BRAVED THE RAIN (and the long distance charges, Ch_rryl) to come out to the Java reading last night. It was great seeing the familiar faces (Collin, Rupert, Karen, Kodac, Lady, Brian, Lisa), but it was also nice to see so many new faces. I speak for all Black people when I say this:

You were a great audience. (Had to be there.)

*

Why did you cut it short? Ch_rryl asked.

Well, I suppose I had a case of the jungle jitters. I had a brand new sequence of 4 AIDS poems I was going to read, but I felt like I'd been on stage a long time. When I reviewed my set after sitting down, I realized that I'd only read 6 poems. Oh, well, there'll be other features.

Anyhoo, for those of you who came in search of the sorts of banned cartoons that inspired my poem, "Americana 2," here is one called Jungle Jitters:

Monkey Do

Hey Pos and Poettes,

Due to a sudden change of events, I'll be featuring this Sunday at Kodac's reading at Java Monkey in downtown Decatur, across the street from the Decatur MARTA station.

I don't think I've given a local feature since, like, February? So, brace yourself people.

Black man.
Build up.
Microphone.

I don't know what's going to happen.

Hot Off the Presses (Well, not Exactly)

Hot off the presses, er, server. Check out my poem, "The Tragic Mulatto..." in the latest issue of the web journal, storySouth.

Grammar Granny Strikes Again

USUALLY I'M PRETTY COOL when it comes to casualizations of language, being I'm a poet and all, but some things get my IGG (Inner Grammar Granny) a little tight in the sphincter.

Today's offender, a certain, otherwise articulate, manager here at the plantation:

... we need to determine the heighth of the monitor from the floor before we can...

Heighth? Heighth? Is that Sprench for height?

It just makes me want to run over into his cubicle, ram two fingers into his mouth, hold his tongue down and go, th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th-

Breathe.

th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th- th-