Just Right

November 24, 2020 jdoubleppoem, poetry, writingLeave a comment

Where have you gone, my hopeful heart,
Exiled by new doom, soon depart?

You used to burn when pushing blood
Saw no things worthless in the mud.

Escaped the liquid from its box,
Coagulate thief, Goldilocks.

When the Internet Makes Magic

October 8, 2020 jdoublepvote out those who will not changeLeave a comment

View this post on Instagram

the internet is 🔥👑. @doggface208 x #ancestormessagefly = 🙌🏽 Posted @withregram • @tabasaur Imma let you finish, but @adam.the.creator made the best meme for tonight's debate. And with that I bid you goodnight . . . #adamthecreator #brilliant #fleetwoodmac #fly #mikepencefly2020

A post shared by adrienne maree brown she/they (@adriennemareebrown) on Oct 8, 2020 at 5:15am PDT

Anne Boyer – Freedom

July 29, 2020 jdoublepanne boyer, freedomLeave a comment

https://anneboyer.substack.com/p/freedom?utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=email&utm_source=copy

“In the deadly free-unfreedom of capitalism, and in the false freedom arranged by the social media billionaires, the people have brought their real bodies to the real streets in a protest against intolerable conditions and in demand of real freedoms, like the righteous one not to be murdered for being black. They have been met with maga-hatted reactionaries yelling “Freedom,” met, too, with federal stormtroopers fully armed as if what the United States needs to become “great” is a violent occupation of our cities by the military of the United States. Statues and monuments have more value to the government than the life or well-being of its subjects — America lets freedom ring, I guess, for all statues that are free to stand free of spray paint while its people are detained.”

vulnerabilities

June 8, 2020June 16, 2020 jdoublepisyouisorisyouaintLeave a comment

UPDATE 6/16/2020:
Proceeds donated so far — $350 USD
Thank you!

isyouisorisyouaint has a new album out.
It’s called vulnerabilities and you can hear it on Apple Music, Google Play, Spotify, Bandcamp, or wherever else you getcher digital tunes.
I’m passing all proceeds from the record on to Campaign Zero, which is a police reform campaign associated with Black Lives Matter.

The rugged individual is a myth. We need other humans – both to help and to be helped by. We need an equitable and engaged society. Encourage system oversight decoupled from financial incentives. Discourage corporatism. Listen to people who say the system doesn’t work for them.

You know all this already. We know all this already. But real change is neither simple nor without sacrifice. We know all this. We’ve known all this for many years.

“The way I see it you’re probably freest from the ages one to four
Around the age of five you’re shipped away for your body to be stored
They promise education, but really they give you tests and scores
And they predictin’ prison population by who scoring the lowest
And usually the lowest scores the poorest and they look like me
And every day on evening news they feed you fear for free
And you so numb you watch the cops choke out a man like me
And ’til my voice goes from a shriek to whisper, “I can’t breathe”
And you sit there in the house on couch and watch it on TV
The most you give’s a Twitter rant and call it a tragedy
But truly the travesty, you’ve been robbed of your empathy
Replaced it with apathy, I wish I could magically
Fast forward the future so then you can face it
And see how fucked up it’ll be
I promise I’m honest, they coming for you
The day after they comin’ for me
I’m readin’ Chomsky, I read Bukowski
I’m layin’ low for a week
I said somethin’ on behalf of my people
And I popped up in Wikileaks
Thank God that I’m covered, the devil is smothered
And you know the evil don’t sleep
Dick Gregory told me a couple of secrets before he laid down in his grave
All of us serve the same masters, all of us nothin’ but slaves
Never forget in the story of Jesus, the hero was killed by the state”

–Killer Mike, Run The Jewels, walkin’ in the snow

Thanks for reading. Be grateful for the breaths you take underneath the Strawberry Moon.

GPS

April 19, 2020 jdoubleppoem, poetry, where is anything, writingLeave a comment

Don’t wait for the map

don’t wait for the end

just tell me that you love me

when you go

don’t wait for me

don’t wait for the signal

no no no no no no no no no no no no

don’t wait for you

just let me think about it now

no don’t wait for you

no no no

36 6/25/2016 12:38:22 No no No Yes

37 6/25/2016 12:39:11 Yes No No Yes

38 6/25/2016 12:40:07 Yes Yes Yes No No

39 6/25/2016 12:41:05 One more time No Yes No

don’t wait for the signal

40 6/25/2016 12:41:39 Yes No No No

41 6/25/2016 12:42:30 One more time No Yes No

just let me think about it now

no don’t wait for you

42 6/25/2016 12:42:45 One more time No Yes No

43 6/25/2016 12:43:36 One more time No No

44 6/25/2016 12:44:28 One more time No Yes Yes

45 6/25/2016 12:44:34 One more time Yes No No Yes

don’t wait for the end

just tell me that you love me

when you go

Spartan Press

March 26, 2020 jdoublepkansas city, poetry, spartan press, writingLeave a comment

Spartan Press: Purveyor of Poetry http://kcstudio.org/spartan-press-purveyor-of-poetry/

The Kansas City Renaissance Narrative

February 10, 2020February 10, 2020 jdoublepart, artists, kansas cityLeave a comment

The Kansas City Renaissance Narrative

The Kansas City Renaissance Narrative

— Read on theblacksunflower.com/2020/02/07/the-kansas-city-renaissance-narrative/

Dazzling Tales of Broken Truths Vol. I

September 19, 2019September 19, 2019 jdoublepFiction, fictions, liars, lies, lying, poem, poetry, writers, writingLeave a comment

In middle-age
I decided
to get myself
a narrator
and take up
the life
of a protagonist.

Critics found
themselves having
a few problems
with this approach:

a) In the book, the narrator early describes the protagonist, Mr. X, as “…the only man in his class in school who is unlikely to wield a pitchfork.” But then, later on in the story, Mr. X is described as “…the only man in the county who could run the family dairy, manage the town’s small hotel, maintain several properties, is the seventh son of a seventh son, and spends his time on learning books as a hobby.”

In other words,
they found
the narrator
unreliable.

They went on
at some length
with their critique:

b) In the book, the protagonist, Mr. X, describes himself as “…the most intelligent man in the world, with three degrees in mathematics from a four-year university.” But the narrator, who is Mr. X’s roommate, reports, “There are two things I can’t write about in this story…my name and the names of the people I worked with and their jobs.”

Mr. X (punctuation marks removed, emphasis on “him”) says one of his supervisors writes in an annual review:

“This guy is a fucking genius! He’s got two degrees, he’s got a doctorate, and you’ll never see him in a story book. Give him all the raises!”

c) In the book, Mr. X, says “I’ll work for anybody you want”. The narrator describes Mr. X as someone:

“…who loves work. He’d rather sit in his office, alone, and wait for the sun to come up and his job to end than spend time for any reason with any woman or child he co-created.”

The critics
seemed unsatisfied
with my fictions
and the fictions
of those
around me:

d) In the book, the protagonist, Mr. X, talks to Ms. M, his co-worker. “I’m always a good liar, especially when I tell the truth, and no matter what happens, I always get away with whatever needs gotten.” The narrator describes Ms. M. as “…a woman who is constantly telling lies, and never even tries to avoid them.”

e) In the book, Mr. X, says “I never get tired of lying about anything. I can just sit down and lie about anything. It’s something I’m born for. It’s my work.” Later, in the book, even the narrator says “I can’t talk without lying, because everyone knows I lie. It’s my work.”

f) In the book, toward the end, we are led to believe that the narrator is Mr. X, the protagonist. This is perhaps the most distasteful sequence of the entire story.

Fountainverse: Friday, 10/11 Schedule

September 16, 2019 jdoublepcharlotte street foundation, Fountainverse, kansas city, KC, poem, poetry, reading aloud in public, writingLeave a comment

4-7PM : BOOK FAIR @ CAPSULE

ART IN THE CAPSULE EVENT SPACE CURATED BY THE SMALTER GALLERY | KC

7-8:30PM : FEATURE 1 @ CAPSULE

RIVERFRONT READINGS | KC

SUSPECT PRESS | DENVER, CO

Host : James Benger

Riverfront Readings Features: Huascar Medina (Poet Laureate of KS), Lindsey Weishar, and Jermaine Thompson

Suspect Press Features: Eliza Beth Whittington and Brice Maiurro.

9-11PM : OPEN MIC @ CAPSULE

JUMP START ART WITH SHARON EIKER | KANSAS CITY

Host: Sharon Eiker

Features: Phillip Emanuel Frost Bounds and Waco Porter

Melatonin Redux

September 16, 2019 jdoublepbear teeth, many arms, poem, poetry, writingLeave a comment

I dreamed of kicking bears in their blood-stained teeth as they chased me up to the top of tall trees.

And I dreamed of fighting children armed with aluminum bats and covering their visages with riot gear masks.

Then I dreamed I saw a gargantuan arm in the distance and I knew I was no longer dreaming.

I walked towards the giant appendage and saw another arm waving to me from afar.

I knew I wasn’t imagining things.

Then I blinked and saw arms stretching from treetop to treetop.

I saw hands grasping at me and yelling words in a signed language.

I witnessed arms springing forth from my arms and I knew that they couldn’t be from any another arms but mine.

I knew the new arms were attached to my old arms, my own weak and weary arms.

I wanted to shake my own hands, pat myself upon my own back, climb up the trees like a monkey spider, but as I tried to leave the ground I felt something pull against my leg and I toppled.

With a great effort I picked myself up and looked down to see arms had sprouted from my legs and were carrying me over the edge of a ragged cliff.

I knew that I was dying then, dying in my own arms.

The arms propelling me over the cliff were the arms that I never knew I had and that I had recovered in my dreaming.

Yet I knew I wasn’t in my dreaming.

I knew that I was falling.

I could feel all my arms flailing, hopelessly treading air.

I felt my new arms break and splinter from my body as I hit the ground below.

There were so many arms upon the dirt that I grabbed one and lifted it up to my eyes.

In the web of its hand, between thumb and forefingers were bloody teeth and a dark, hungry mouth, like a bear’s.

I thought about kicking the arm in its bloody teeth, but felt that wouldn’t help, so I thought instead to hold tight as the arm lifted me in the air like a bundle of helium balloons.

The world turned again and I looked toward the sky.

In the passing clouds, I saw my mother’s face.

She had fangs and a smile and around her head danced cherubs dressed in riot gear.

“I tried to tell you about dreams,” cloud-mother said.

“Yes,” I said. “Sometimes I remember.”

“And sometimes,” she sighed, “sometimes you forget.

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