My Belly

Image Credit: Glamour Magazine

My Belly

Dare I say that I love my belly…

“I love my Belly..”

Although, I haven’t had one in awhile.  I do now…. though brief; primarily from a monthly bloat…. but a BELLY nonetheless.

A Belly
-of Fullness
-of comfort
-of laxness

A Belly reflective of too much wine and cake
A Belly of too much laughter and late night folly

A nice bulge of roundness and suppleness..looseness and slouch

A plucked freedom from strictness and conservativeness. Relieved of restraints and firmness.

No high planks or sit ups. Not tight or tucked. A belly, my belly.

Out of my box for a moment…

A defiant Belly that says..”I don’t care right NOW! I’m tired, I’ll care (maybe) tomorrow.

A Belly that waits for TV and would rather eat than starve.

Plump and full, content and resurrected..For now..

I’ll be back on my self-proclaimed, perfectly created, road of perdition tomorrow…


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A Bang of Shoes image by Enricco Sua Ummarino

Lil Kim, Blow Up Doll; image by David LaChapelle

He wants me..

……………………though he knows me not.

He wants me..

……………………..he thinks I’m beautiful  “Your my Living Doll..” he whispers at my earlobe…though he’s never really seen me.

He wants me..

……………………..he wants my legs wrapped around him, ankles crossed at his waist, holding, gripping, and lifting me…though he’ll never ever feel me.

He wants me..

………………..because he says he “thinks” he loves me.

But how? How could he want me?  How could he possibly love me..When I’m not the “Me” that he thinks I am.  In fact, I’m the (ME) that he refuses to see.

(ME): Flawed and imperfect. Slightly irregular. Quirky and disoriented. Clumsy and restless. Discontented and needy. Destructive, ill and indecisive. I sleep with Skeletons and Bathe the Devil. I sometimes laugh when I shouldn’t and take things much too personal. I can be cruel, narcissistic and impatient.

But, He Wants Me..

Only because he’s too blinded by what “he wants”  that he’d rather sleep with a lie and take home a fantasy than to face the plain reality that I am not the (me) that he wishes me to be.

I’m flawed and imperfect. Slightly irregular, and will never be the vision of what (YOU) think (YOU) see.


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My Daughters and Sons


I’ve had many..many.. Daughters and Sons

I packed their lunches with their favorite foods, a blessed fruit, and a note “No Matter What, You are Great! You will do your best because you are the best!, I love You, signed Mommy and (smiley face)

I zipped their coats and helped them with their backpacks..Tied the laces of their shoes so they wouldn’t trip. I pinched their cheeks and hugged them tight.

I’ve had many..many.. Daughters and Sons

I watched them from the living room window as they crossed the street…”Look both ways!” I called out.. “Okay,.. Now go.”

I sent them on their way to school, and waited impatiently for their arrival home

I’ve had many..many.. Daughters and Sons

Son’s as Mighty as the Midnight’s Moon. Daughters as bright as a Summer’s Sun.

…I cooked and cleaned for..I begged and borrowed for…I rallied and prayed for..

…I helped with math problems, and made grammar corrections, I sat with fat cheeks in school auditoriums and was the first to stand for ovation, yelling the loudest praise..”Yes!!! You go boy!”

I’ve had many..many.. Daughters and Sons

Daughters and Sons that share the same twinkle that highlights my pupil.

Daughters that followed my lead, and Sons that marched in my shadow.

Daughters and Sons, that have made my eye’s dark and sunken from tears and worry… that have lined my forehead and arched my brow from anger and frustration..that have puffed my cheeks and creased my mouth from smiles and laughter.

I’ve had many..many.. Daughters and Sons

…that I sent away…never to return… That I packed away..never to be unpacked.  That are here, no longer.

Daughters and Sons..that are now gone… only to stand before me as Women and Men.



(It takes a village to raise a child..We are all Parents.)

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I Feel Different-Release The Alien (Remix)


I love highlighting artist that sometimes bypass  mainstream media‘s eye.  This dude is quite interesting.. (In a Great way).  His name is Kamal Imani.

This is a hot Afro House Mix on top of smooth Spoken Word Poetry.  The video is psychedelic too.

“I feel different, too..”


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The Call


My past has always been my Past and Present (combined). I’ve never been released from it.  I always thought that I dealt with my pain and abuse in a way that kept me comfortable and sane.  I wrote about it.  To me, it was my way of remembering, confronting, and fighting. With disgust and angst I bashed and battered all the wrong doing to a pulp. Apparently, I thought that I could beat the trauma away, even though it never occurred to me that (IT) kept coming back.  My writing seemed to get more and more distressed.  So much so, that I recently was forced to stop. First, I thought it was just “Writers Block” or me just being too busy.  Then, as the days turned to weeks I began to realize that something else was stopping me from writing.

For the past couple of months, something has called out to me. Something has brought my (past) outright and in my face. Lost letters suddenly appearing in-between the pages of a forgotten journal.  The review of an old manuscript that brought up “old” questions. Strange dreams and even stranger phone calls. New meetings, new people, new advice and viewpoints, and new lessons.

Whatever it was that was beckoning me, demanded my attention. For days, I began reading me.  I read through over 10 complete journals. I read my scribble on loose paper tucked away in drawers. I went through my websites, posts and drafts. My one liners, poetry, and short stories. My rambles, photographs, and even artwork.

What I saw was painfully heart-breaking and tearful. There was a constant, resounding, wailing cry in my writing. I found out was that (I) was sad, angry,  hurt, and bitter. Yet, convincingly content with my feelings. I realized that I  had protected hate within me. Hate became my friend and confidant. Hate was my defender yet my baby.  I even gave it a name (The Jackal) which will be premiering in short-story form hopefully in a couple of days. I became so crafty with my defensive techniques that I honestly believed that I had to nurture my hate to be a complete and whole person.

I’ve always spoke openly about my duality, my personalities (not clinical), my day and night. It has never been a secret about how my life transitions and slips in-between the good and the bad. Actually, I’ve somewhat embraced the differences because I believed that it made me more of an interesting person. But, most importantly this beloved hate of mine, does something simply intriguing to my writing. My hate has given to what I love the most (my work) an undeniable twist.  Therefore, believe me when I say that I have more than a bit of fear now. I’m petrified about what this fast approaching (change) may do to me and my ability to write. Which could be why I’ve ignored (it) for so long.

But, the CALL. This Call wouldn’t wait any longer. In a sense, the Mirror that I had eyed myself in (my Bipolar Mirror/Bipolar Mirror Skits) suddenly crashed and a new one appeared.  This other mirror had been hidden behind the first mirror.  Imagine me.  Imagine this. I freaked out!  WTH! Here, I thought my dress was already hiked and panties proudly displayed. Only to find out that there are ruffles, and layers upon ruffles, slips and petticoats, garters and stockings, layers upon layers before you/I can get to the goodies.

I’ve come face to face with the fact that I have been a hypocrite. Pointing fingers at others and their mess or lack of, just to make “My Mess” more acceptable. Holding on to a dreadful past and saying I’m moving forward because I’m confronting it and knowing with all my soul that I’m lying to myself and everyone else who loves me. I haven’t confronted anything. Because if I truly had, there would be no need nor want to hold on to it. It doesn’t make sense and hasn’t for years.  I’ve written about it often and shamelessly.

The Box  “I know that I am fragile, a bit damaged, cunningly beastly…. but you don’t…You can’t see it. You won’t be able to recognize it, even if you did… by chance… have one unspeakable moment to peer into me…It’s too ghastly and lurid for you to comprehend.

You are too perfect, so perfect to ever know evil; even when your holding it in your hands.

So, put me back… in the box….quick.

Continuum  …”Itching.. I scratch holes in my skin..
twisting and restless..I pick through my flesh
Anxiously, I scrape; (to get the bad out)
but the drips they suckle

Instead, of watching them go hungry..I feed them
Lest, they will I survive.”

I’ve held on to Hate but claimed I wanted Love.  Hate monopolized so much of me that Love would never be able to fit. My life has been a big contradiction and it’s no wonder why I’ve been so confused.

I talk about the Love Movement so much, and how it is fundamental in anything and everything. Yet, I casually brush it away every time it lands on my shoulder.

“The Call” is LOVE.  Love called out to me..and I listened. Not just physically. My soul listened. I heard and felt the sound, clear. Love for me. Love just for me. Not given to me because it’s meant for me to share. I’ve done that. I’ve always given all the love I could hustle up to everyone else. On the surface, that’s what kept me going for all this time. Constantly passing. Passing it on, from hand to hand, project to project, charity to charity. Passing along and making others happy, kept me happy. Only because I felt that it would be selfish and futile to keep some for myself.  My hate and mess could never be conquered; so why bother. I convinced myself that if I ever kept love for myself that it would be “Thievery”. It’s stealing if you take something that you were never meant to have. Giving it all up was the right thing to do.

This time, The Universe,  called out to me. For me to hold on to, for me to keep, for me to heal away the hate; the hate that I thought kept me safe.  LOVE gently and tenderly shooed hate away.  Now, I understand that Love is all I need.  Love without acceptance. I don’t have to welcome the bad as apart of me, because it was bad that was inflicted on to me. I have never been forced to commit. I chose to commit to my hate out of fear. Now, I release it out of love. True love. Love for what brought me here (at this place) and in this state of mind.  Love for the Woman that I am TODAY. But, also love for my past and the girl who was left behind.  Love will tell my story and only with the hopes of retrieving more love…will be my motivation to write it.

Besides, I’ve tried Hate for so long, wouldn’t it be just as sensible to try Love?

My personal affirmations:

Love is my eyes and ears to ward against Hate.. if Hate should ever try to claim another mirror.

I can see myself clearly and without blemish only through the love-filled eyes of the Universe…(I see me just as I am seen)

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My Mommy’s Birthday Song

moms song

It seems almost ridiculous for me to buy a birthday card for you.  Two main; pertinent reasons why.   First, I’m a writer.  Second; and the most important, there is no card, or letter, or monument  created by anyone other than myself, that would say or express half of what I want and need to say…to you.

As long as I can remember, I have watched you.  I have admired you.  I have questioned you and some of the decisions that you made.  I have loved and even disliked you (at times).

But, the one resounding and consistent that YOU have always been Free.  You have never hid your ups and downs.  You have been open about your confusion and uncertainty about direction.  You have loved and disliked me; and told me in very clear voice when you did.

You have been FREE.  Free to prance in your own way.  Free to belt out in uneven pitch YOUR OWN SONG.

Free to dance to whatever music you hear for the day.  Free to choose.  Free to build or destroy.

Free to make your own path and dare anyone tread it without your permission.

Despite the past truths…of those or them…or (him).  He who tried to take all from you.  He who wanted to silent and muffle your song.  Who wanted to pluck your feathers..You never yielded.  YOU always fought.  You always stayed and lingered on your own ground. You always claimed what was rightfully yours.  Never giving up!

Never allowing your soul to be taken.

Never to be defined.  Never to be broken.

Undeniably, Unmistakable, Irrefutable..You.

Your and will always be YOUR DAY.  There is no one like you.  No one that can compare or come close.

However, if by chance or opportunity your attributes could be split..they would be divided between your three daughters:

The Crazy.. The Cool..and The Sexy (what you affectionately call us).

You taught me  that I am a woman.  Not, a mere Woman.  Not a meek Woman.  But a Glorious Reflective woman… who is Free!  Free to do whatever she chooses.  Free to float… and laugh when she sinks.

I’ve always been able to take my hands and press them tightly to my ears..spin in circles and hum..hum..”I don’t care…I don’t care…I don’t care”. At times mimicking your screech..”I don’t care..I don’t care..I don’t care”.

Not listening to what anyone else said I should. Maintaining my own voice and sound.

I SING YOUR SONG  TOO, MOMMY!   “I love YOU!  I love YOU!  I love YOU! and I don’t care..I don’t care..I don’t care.”


Happy Birthday Mommy.

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The Bell Tolls


At the nape of your neck.. my pale fingernails linger in thin curls..

softly pressing you into my cheek..

your ear to mine..

around my shoulders you rest..

tender grazing on soft sheets..we wrap each other..

we hold and console

carefully concealing one another..

tightly safeguarding…

At times, I am underneath you.. hiding and retreating, guarded, kept warm and protected

At times, I become your wings..stretching myself wide on top of you..allowing you to drift

We take turns lifting each other

We take turns breathing for the other

Tender kisses blend with sour tears

pained and silent

………..we make love

While the walls are crashing to the ground

While bombs are blasting and shots are firing

amidst screams..

………..we make love

While fires are burning and corpse lie uncovered in the streets

………..we make love

with shell casings at the foot of the bed and war ravaged photographs on the pillow

………..we make love

with a black-hooded victim huddling in the corner; dawning torn feet and lacerated hands

with orphan children crying underneath the bed

while the floor boards are rattling and the earth is shaking

while the Regime is at the door and the sirens are wailing…

………..we make love

with hundreds of gas-masked covered faces..peering through the windows

………..we make love..

Desperately revolting against the hour

Fighting minutes by seconds to reclaim lost innocence

The ticks tock louder..and then… The Bell tolls…

(Times up)..with angst we face each other

I leap from the bed onto bloody execution stones..

grab the pistol, posters, banners, and bullhorn..

He grabs the vest, machetes, rifle, and phones..

….a blown kiss..and out separate windows we fly.



(“The Revolution WILL NOT be Televised”..just whispered through the hearts of the TRUE REVOLUTIONARIES.”


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He does

opt-hr-black panther couple

He does..


I screamed from the kitchen in my loudest, sweetest voice…”I love you as long as the Sun SHINES…and the Water FLOWS!” with a smile so bright and an inside giggle.


Behind me appears…and whispers in my ear “I love you even if the Sun never shined and all I could do was feel you” (while gripping my waist and tugging me close)   “I love you even if there was no water. Your wet kisses are more than enough to keep me hydrated”..

“Funny” I smirk and turn to face him..”Let’s see just how wet my kisses are..”

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Go Ahead, Dream!


Just when I started to accept a condition of lack… Just before I settled in feelings of unworthiness and deficiency. ..  Right before I destined my defeat..and allowed solidarity to name me….years of prayers, dreams and visions appeared.

Not, hope, not optimism. Not potential..but reality;  Tangible, touchable, reality.

“Giving up is never an option.

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Poker Face (Experiment) not yet finished..(insomnia rant)

pokerface [320x200]
Poker face..getting ready for a party.

nothing but goodies behind her back..dimple cheeked fat kneed girl.  Long lashes playfully blink, a fat hand she fans which faces toward her breast. ..

In her seat she gleefully kicks, scraping her heels in the already worn scratches of the hardwood floor.

“Come on man!! Hurry up and play.” She laughs.  “You might as well fold.  You know I won!”

He ignores her, biting his lower lip.

Impatiently she squirms, and spins in her seat.  Tossing her hair back behind her, and leaning as far back in the seat as possible.  Her neck winding as she circles. Side-eye glances..and sneaky snickers.

“Come on man..your down to your shorts..” she giggles..and peeks under the table. “Just fold already!”

He shyly..laughs.  “Nope.  I’m not haven’t won yet.”

She smiles..and makes a noticeable glance under the table.  Cracking up now.. “Really?  I’m still fully dressed!” with her arms stretched out and a slow twirl in the chair.

He frowns and twists his lips..but she’s so silly, he can’t help but laugh.  “Very Funny..ha. ha.”.

Anxiously, she spins again.  Waving the cards around.  “You see em..You see em..” playing.. “I got cha…I got cha.” hysterically laughing.

“No. What I see is that’ve had too much juice”.


Alright..I quit.  You win.

Really?”  What do I win..hee hee.

He slaps his chest..You win all of this..




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Illustrious, illicit…an epic affair of magnificent proportion…

Colorful, bright, neon, shifty spectrum…. vibrant-red thigh, shines along purple beams.

Plum-black finger nails, waver in and out; in-between thin strands of curly dark hair.

Sly crooked smile with perched glossy lip…left a cherry mark on the back of a strong neck…

…a full lash flutters simultaneously while glistened shoulder rises and instinctively forcing the green cotton strap to fall..just slightly above her elbow

a glimpse of cleavage, a quick smile… and around she spins…

Bending and Arching
Flexing and Teasing

Her arms whirl above her head with winding wrists slithering in the air…showcasing her new treasure, his latest pacifier; a sparkly diamond tennis bracelet.

The ruffles of her dress feather against his pants..

Softly, he grips her waist and gently turns her to face him…

With long fingers he sweeps the hair from her face…with opposite hand he gently comforts the back of her neck..

In complete view of her..he kisses her ear and rests in the scent of her..

Embraced, entranced, and out of step..they suspend on the floor

Her heels quietly click linoleum while slender arms hide in his suit jacket

…back and forth they drag…

Wishful thoughts of the moment lasting more than a moment.

Hopeless thoughts of leaving everything behind..abandoning all for all..

Two Greedy Hearts, reciting selfish prayers and wants of permanence…

(They were everything that each other wanted)…

In his face..her gaze pleads…”Make it last”.. .an envious dimple and a wailing wrinkle, beg him to stand up for her… Beg him to choose…her.

A sturdy tap on his shoulder… a dangerous eye…and the dance was over…

Now..alone and GREEN she sits…in a crowded room.

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The Secret aint NO secret, in Kells the movie

The Secret Of Kells

Hunh?! What?!

Animated film, “The Secret of Kells” (2009), based on the “Book of Kells” was nominated in the 2010 Oscars for it’s beautiful animation.  Actually, for most of the world “The Secret of Kells” would have stayed a “secret” if it was not for the surprise nomination at the Oscars.

I know I’m a bit late on the review..but I just saw the movie. Well, saw enough of the movie to decide that I didn’t want to and couldn’t see the rest.

I planned on enjoying a relaxing Sunday evening, with my children,  watching  animated movies until bed.  First movie..Japanese Anime..Great!  Heard the reviews about “Secret of Kells” and wanted to save the best for last. Unfortunately, I’m a bit confused and upset by what I saw within the first 5 mins. of the film.   “Brother Assoua” mimicked some of  the best of  black stereotypical caricature, that I have seen a while.

“Brother Assoua” the biggest and blackest character in the movie with distinctive lips to match.   Funny, I even  blinked a couple of times, and had to rewind the tape just a bit, to make sure that I was seeing what I thought I saw.

“HOLD UP!!!! Is that Black Face!!!  Oh, no.   I re-winded again and checked out the brother more thoroughly, as well as the other characters.  Hmm..  this “Brother” seems to be the only one with lips. . and not just any lips….HUGE, Red, fat,lips that cover half of his  face.  Actually, the other characters barely had  lips..just thin lines, in different shapes to show expression.

So,  I was left to ponder.  Why did this character have lips so pronounced?  Why was he the only black character? …Why did they even need to include a black character in an Irish movie?  I sure wasn’t expecting to see any.  Lastly, how did this get nominated for an Oscar?  Shouldn’t some alarms have gone off. Did anyone question this?  Moreover, what kind of problem does the nation have if   subjective black-exploitation can be placed in children cartoons and celebrated?

The blatant disrespect to people of color and the lack of  consideration is dis-heartening.  Millions have fought and still fight to end destructive and demeaning racist images.  But, it is no “secret” that “The secret of  Kells,”  demoralizes and devalues any civil rights movement by heightening racial insensitivity.

Take a gander…

Not much difference from previous stereotypical racial caricatures..

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