Task Manager

With the emergence of the personal computer,

many of us have forgotten our savior,

the task manager. 

Three quick buttons to open up a program,

that shows you everything your computer is doing,

the things that are responding and those that arent,

and you are given the option 

to end the tasks.

End those parts that arent working right now

End those parts so that others can still function,

It was a fairly useful thing. 

Leaps in technology mean that nowadays it is fairly rare for your page to freeze

and if it does freeze, 

Google Chrome will kindly offer to kill it for you.

The following pages are unresponsive:

The lesson today

The notes you should be taking

The test in front of you

would you like to kill these pages?

No Google I cant kill the lesson,

I cannot kill the classes I am in

I cannot kill the way the color of the sky is particularly blue today,

I cannot kill the way that tree outside looks really good for climbing

I cannot kill the red jelly bean that somehow made its way to the middle of the freaking carpet.

I mean I guess I could go pick it up. 

but that might disrupt class.

Shit class, are we still taking an exam?

Some days I wish I had a task manager.

Some days I wish I could control alter and delete my disorder,

Some days I fantasize about having a brain that isnt made from loose yarn, and bad ideas

Some days I would trade every creative bone in my body to just sit through a class.

Some days I wish my mind would calm down

Some nights I wish sleep came easily

Sounds like insomnia,

Some nights I wish I could worry about one thing and not everything,

Sounds like anxiety,

Some nights I wish I could simply sit,

Without being besieged by a thousand obligations

Sounds like OCD

Sounds like things a lot worse than ADD

The disorder we made up to excuse bad behavior

See I have been called everything from sped to stupid

And while I know next to nothing about brain chemistry

I know the inside of my own skull well enough 

to see loose wiring and insufficient insulation

And sometimes the wires connect,

and a bunch of buzzfeed articles will tell you,

that the ADD brain is uniquely creative,

Sounds almost sincere,

just like every professor who said,

You're brain isn't quite right

Have you tried adderall

Have you tried adderall 

Have you tried adderall

Fine.

I'll try it.

Throw back a little bit of self control,

Swallow small blue responsibility,

and wait...

Pages loading...

Pages loading...

The page "personality" is unresponsive,

The page "friendly" is unresponsive

The page "extrovert"is unresponsive 

Would you like to kill these pages?

Too late you already have. 

Notes for When My Child Falls in Love

1. Do not be afraid, this is going to be freaking awesome.
2. It's ok to be afraid, there will be times when this seems like anything but awesome.
3. I guess what I am saying is don't be worried about the aches in your chest and tears in your eyes, they are a beauty that humanity has been obsessed with for centuries. We might even figure out what it all means eventually, but probably not.
4. The first time you chip off a piece of your heart to give away, the person you give it to might not understand what they are holding onto, give that piece anyways and dont even worry about it, I will have packed pieces of my heart in your backpack, your lunch box and eyes so that you are never running low.
5. When you do meet that person that makes your heart speed up, your hands sweat, and your tongue twist itself into a pretzel of all of the things you want to say, some of the things you should say and a whole lotta nonsense, you will be overwhelmed and that's fine, let yourself get lost in the feeling like a wave crashing over you, let it carry you safely to shore, let it pull you out to sea, you are in the midst of something irresistible, and sometimes it is nice to be carried.
6. For the record, should you be pulled under the water, should your lungs become flooded and the light start to fade, I will be standing there, I will pull you up to oxygen and safety, to sunlight and stability, but if you are anything like me you will immediately plunge yourself into the ocean again because that is the type of person that our family produces.
7. When it all goes to shit, which happens with surprising frequency I will be there for caloric therapy, and romantic comedies and books and poetry and all of the coping mechanisms that I have used, and you will probably want to sulk and be alone and that's cool too, but dont be surprised when every meal we have is based around comfort food.
8. Should I find out that you have been anything less than careful and considerate with someone else's heart, I will teach you a lesson you never forget, opening up the boxes of damaged pieces of my heart that will have probably collected dust in the attic. I will show you the bruises and breaks that accrue over time, and dont always stop hurting, you will watch your father cry and you will know that you have got to be careful with things that are precious.
9. Don't forget that you are precious, that you are to be handled with care, that you are chaos and cosmos, that no one but you will ever get to decide your limits, that your hand could snatch stars from the sky and fix them to your ears that you might hear the songs the universe is playing, that your eyes will run clear like a river and that your soul is unblemished by malice and beloved by a God who gave you to me with a complete list of all of the ingredients she included, and instructions to light a fire in your chest to share with the world.
10. the first time you decide to write a love poem, promise me you'll show it to me first so that I can tell God you caught the fire she requested and that you are ready to share the world. 

The Matriarch

My mother is a tree with roots, branches and leaves.
My mother's roots break concrete and dig deep into our city,
they find life water past the sewers,
Yea, my mother finds love,
 and goes through a lot of shit to do so.
My mother's roots are as Irish as potatoes and whiskey,
as Irish as wooden spoon swords and oat meal,
as Irish as fire and poetry,
and she fed me through those roots.
My mother's roots raised me not to lift hands in anger,
My mother's roots love the earth that surrounds them,
My mother's roots weather storms and cataclysms,
My mother's roots are stubborn,
My mother's roots do not give up,
My mother's roots find hope in the darkness.

My mother is a tree with roots, branches and leaves.
My mother's branches reach out into the sky,
seeking to catch falling angels before they hit the ground.
My mother's branches spread out to entangle other trees,
creating cradles in the forest.
My mothers branches dip low,
almost touching the ground,
so that they might be climbed by kids searching for heaven.
My mother's branches are shelter from the summer,
My mother's branches are worship and prayer,
My mother's branches protect me,
My mothers branches are a home when I dont deserve one,
My mother's branches do not accept excuses,
My mother's branches are strong enough to hold up a world.
My mother's branches never forget, but always forgive.

My mother is a tree with roots, branches and leaves.
My mother's leaves do not fall, they float.
The orange touch of autumn is not feared or loathed
See my mother teaches her leaves that for everything there is a season,
but in that admission she sees no reason
to ever accept anything less than justice and love,
My mother loves her leaves like they will never leave her,
My mother's leaves will eventually leave her
My mother's leaves will never be left by her,
My mother's leaves are lifted to be fed by sunshine and freedom,
My mother's leaves catch the wind at just the right angle,
so that they might hear it whisper of beauty and change,
My mother's leaves are unlike that of any other tree,
My mother's leaves love the ground beneath them,
as if from the moment they first tasted air,
they knew that the world was limited and precious,
as if they had been taught about grace and hope and courage,
as if they had grown on a tree,
that loved unconditionally.

Praying to Pecola

In November of 2011 my sister gave birth,

Three months before her due date,

Lily came into the world,

And she was perfect.

We cradled her,

We whispered in her ear

We sheltered her

We held her close against our chests

We loved her.

She had milk chocolate skin,

Dark eyes that dared defiance,

And a smile that was entirely too old

for someone who arrived three months early.

In the three years that have passed since then,

She has been inundated by adjectives:

She has been called sweet.

She has been called precious.

She has been called beautiful.

We shower her with love,

and dread the day she leaves the house.

We fear the day that she enters the world,

We fear the day she gets called ugly for the first time

We can see the word on her lips as she echoes it

Her mouth unsure,

Like tasting a flavor it has not yet encountered

Not a spice, salt or sugar,

Something that tastes wholly different

Unlike anything she has ever been exposed to

The taste of cruelty.

We dread the day she holds up a white doll

That she will no doubt be handed

By some well meaning charitable white person

And asks, “Why doesn’t she look like me?”

We dread the day those eyes,

That once held an unquestionable authority,

Glaze over in tears and confusion,

And wonder if maybe

Their hue is anything less than perfect.

We know this will one day happen

We have heard from prophets like Angelou and Morrison

The stories of an era in which racism

Was worn on sleeves and hoods

Before we hid it away,

Before we buried an empty coffin called it dead

Before we named ourselves post racial

And pretended the scars our society sliced into humanity

Had faded into unmarred flesh.

They haven’t.

They are less scars than they are scabs

Wounds waiting within our kids

To be torn open

To spill scarlet once more

To become infected avulsions

The broken results of our children trying to pull out

Beauty standards they had no role in creating

Rotten teeth ideals that both bite and bleed

We have inundated her with adjectives,

In the hopes of using all the space in her heart

Leaving no room for slurs and slander

Leaving no room for hate and anger

Because she is ours and we have claimed her

We will not have her pray for relief from white Jesus

Will not have her weep for blue eyes

We will pray for intercession,

From Pecola, From Claudia, From Frieda

From Rosa, From Coretta, From Alice,

That God would reach down,

With hands as dark as coffee,

And cradle Lily to her breast,

Kiss her like cocoa butter,

Until she loves every inch of herself,

As much as we do.

A Prayer for Heavy Handed Boys

My sister told me I had heavy hands.
and it wasn't always my fault
But even play fights were prone to bruising,
and still I am sometimes afraid of my hands.
So I pray at the start of every day:

Lord grant me the strength,
that these fingers would stretch instead of clench
that these hands would swing not like clubs
but like chariots,
dipping down for a soul that could lead me home.

Oh great carpenter forgive me,
for every blasphemous profanity
that might escape my lips
at the countless blisters, burns and bruises,
born of a thousand projects
forgive me also,
for those which will not be completed
and keep in my hands the dull desire to create.

God make it so that the calluses
that I will no doubt collect
will always be the roughest thing about these hands
that even in play, these hands would catch
kids who leap into the air
testing gravity
daring it to slip up for even a moment.

Oh Mother of God,
make that these hands could be cradles
that they could shelter that which is most precious
that I could give, if even for just a moment
a small modicum of safety.

Please God,
Let Arthritis riddle my knuckles,
let them become knotted,
let my hands be warped into caricatures,
let them be purposeless with pain,
let them contort themselves beyond recognition,
let them fail to do all that which hands do,
Lord, let them do all this,
before they do what is sometimes too easy for them,
let my hands fall useless at my sides,
before they ever seek to cleave flesh from bone,
before they ever draw blood from its holy sanctuary.
Let my hands never be extensions of violence, God.

I pray by all my favorite saints and sinners,
that my hands would embody the creative forces of life
Lord let pens and pencils form familiar indents in my hands,
let it be, so that stories and stanzas flow freely
carving valleys into plain pages
let a river of of writing pour forth from these hands,
let ink and graphite stain my my finger tips,
let flowers of unintentional beauty encroach upon these digits
and let me love them for it.

At all times God
let me hear the faintest whisper,
the sound of my big sister,
reminding me to be careful with these heavy hands.

Things to Remember as I Burn Out

I am in control.
I need to believe this with mind heart and soul,
I need to understand that this will take its toll,
I need to work and work and work towards this goal,
I need to find the diamond hidden in the coal,
I need to push and push and push and make this rock roll.
and maybe it will roll back.
and maybe I will crack
and maybe I'll let this world run me through,
let the weights and fates determine that I didnt do enough,
that I was simply too invested in this bluff,
that I wasn't really that tough,
that I shoulda called it quits when the going went past rough,
and hit that critical point of no return.
where I was too stubborn to learn,
where I was too determined to have any concern,
for the things that creep slowly up and start to burn,
and even as the flames began to lick up around my ears,
I was too proud to extinguish them with tears,
had no time for the warnings of seers ,
was too bold to recognize my fears,
too optimistic waiting for that second when the smoke clears.
When the world would open up before me,
where the arch of the universe bends and I can see,
over mountains and across the sea,
and all the futures there could be,
every accidental opportunity ,
that point between my idealism and rationality,
the imposition of my dreams over reality,
the cut off between desires and morality,
where everything could click with the lightest touch of intentionality.
but here is the problem.
the clearing of smoke is actually rather rare,
and maybe it's true; the cliche that life just isnt fair,
and maybe we will be engulfed in more than our share,
of internal infernos that burn until our bones are laid bare,
leaving us exposed for the world to stare,
at charred skeletons who couldnt stop to care,
about repercussions and conclusions,
who left behind flesh marred by contusions,
and plans that were lost in the midst countless confusions,
in the pursuit of that one perfect solution,
that would grant us a touch of absolution.
for all that we desire is there,
that were we to reach out and take it,
something might change.
but not us.
we who once made our way down to the river,
who waded in without a shiver,
and screamed until the world began to quiver,
until the birds flew off in fright and the trees began to wither.
We who would shout and make demands  of Heaven!
who would call for compensation of seventy times seven,
who look upon burgeoning clouds,
and are not satisfied until the floodgates are pulled back,
who take up the title of rain maker,
who seek to be chain breakers,
who could be called earth shakers,
whose voices will cut through smoke and make it clear.
And maybe I will burn out.
But it will not be in silence.
I am in control.
I walk out from underneath rocks which would roll,
tread on diamonds that were once coal
and even if all that is left is a charred skeleton,
I was told that every skull has its grin,
and Yorick and I are in on this joke,
I will cough but will not choke,
as I step through this smoke
and change the world.

The Sounds of Summer

I have had a long term love hate relationship with summer,
between the whale like blubber that I need to get through the long winter months,
and my propensity for sweating when I do anything more active than lounging,
that period of May through September gets a little hard for me.
That being said I love swimming, and playing outside,
I am somewhere between a Labrador retriever and a 5 year old,
in terms of my enthusiasm for bouncing off of walls
and then out of the house
For a time summer meant
crashing through the perennially broken screen door,
Out into sunshine and scraped knees
Out into all the bruises and bumps that are part of growing up,
The loudest thing from my childhood was for a long time the sound of that screen door slamming.

Until it wasn't.

I don't remember how old I was the first time I heard a gun shot echo off the buildings in my city.
I don't remember at what age I became able to determine between fireworks and firearms.
nor do I recall exactly when the impulse to duck became second nature.
but eventually it did.
Flinching and twitching,
 dodging my way through the world,
I could never tell if it was the ADD acting up again
Or if my body was simply dodging bullets that weren't there.
I grew to hate silence,
if for no other reason than that it shatters
With edges like broken glass
So I wear sounds like they are a second skin
I surround myself in constant din
and I will never let the quiet in.
I sleep soundly through both sirens and thunder
but even then I have to wonder
because even dreams can be torn asunder.
and I fear being cut apart by broken peaces
of temporary twilight truces

Summers are scary.
There is a direct correlation between ice cream sales and gun violence
This is a reflection of an awful urban lesson
City kids grow up learning a sick sense of duality
It is a rather warped reality
to relish the vacation like every other kid
but keep in the back of the mind,
the knowledge that long summer shadows
hide many things
like bullets
like silence
and both of them scare me.
And I don't know what's worse.
The silence of peers
or the sounds of their screams?
I grasp at my ears
and they burst at the seams,
It's just how it be, That's just what I see, It's just as it seems.
And what worse than a bullet,
is the hand the sends it
malignant muscle memory
 and it's impact on the senses
bullets cross border and cultures,
 and bridges and fences.
Tell me why they can't mark that on the census?

So we sleep through the night when we can,
and we roam the streets when we cant.
Wish it were that only the gods own thunder
could wrench the sky and disturb my slumber
but right now, the cops and their kind got my city down under.

And even though my home is as quiet as it has ever been,
for the first time in my life I can't sleep past ten
and my alarm doesnt come from a phone or clock
My sleep isn't killed by guns on the block
but by badges in the street
and pain in my feet
and the point in my brain
where my shame and my pride meet.
We march because we hurt,
We fight because it works.
We lose because our curse.
Our wounds will never be as deep as Uncle Sam's purse.
Our ride will never be as smooth as the graveman's hearse
We will never be they who come first
Because that's America at its worst
patriotism nationalism and pseudofacism,
Secure in our faith that the State wont come for us
That the hands of fate dont lust for us
That our family has trusted us
enough to know our secrets and failures,
enough to know that we're in hell here,
enough that they would never send us to the counselor.
That's the trick ain't it?
everybody's broken
there pride in their silence,
their demons unspoken,
the violence of choking
their fire slow smoking
they'll say theyre just joking,
but they dont understand
 the coals theyre stoking

I don't have any answers,
I dont sleep easy,
I might get cancer,
I might like yeezy,
I'm as dumb as rock,
and mute as stone,
But if you come round my block,
you can see I'm not alone.