Flow of Consciousness

I have little faith in me as a woman larger than life. That’s why, when I decided to have a child, it had to be a man child. I know a whole lot better how to react to a positive male image and how the world reacts to males – even males of color, but especially black males. Even white males are jealous of the black male. The black man, no matter his position in life, when he is mentally strong, is stronger than all the sum of his atoms. He is the big monitor on the Times Square building. You can see him from all sides, if you really want. He’s that large. No wonder white men feel threatened. They do pale by comparison. So where does that leave us women in this world, in this reality. Better only in the movies. That’s why I like Buffy (of the vampire slayer ilk) and Beatrix (of the all out Kill Bill revenger ilk). They kick butt and neither one looks like a Hollywood bimbo – except for the blonde part. But that’s okay, I’ve been blonde, too. And blondes do have more fun. If you’re going to be objectified anyway, you might as well have more fun doing it. I looked GREAT as a blonde. But, guess what: gray hair doesn’t hold peroxide very well. I don’t look great bald. My head’s too big. So I’ll do something else. I always do something. Not afraid to experiment. Good damn thing, because anything else is boring. I will not be bored. That ‘s not happening any time soon. I’ve got to stay busy amusing myself – or win Lotto so I can get a boy toy. I accept boy toys of all ages – but I discriminate.

Lying Through His Teeth

I looked in his eyes, and watched them slide to the left. Then shift to the right. Not at me. Okay, he’s uncomfortable, I think. Don’t look. I’ll close my eyes and listen to what he’s saying.

The words. They strike out softly and flick blood off my cheeks. They cut me every time he lets them pass over his tongue, clatter over his teeth, and into my face.

No truth in them. Truth would have sailed through his orifice and caressed my forehead. His lies should have bounced off my heart and back into his mouth, careening off shattered teeth.

I opened my eyes.

Where I'm From

I’m from the projects. A PJ girl born in the heart – the aching heart – of Brooklyn. Brownsville . . . once a middle income, kishka loving, sawdust on the deli floor, mamas and daddies living together raising children who walked to school and came home for lunches, candy stores selling penny candy next door to the Saturday matinee movies – double feature and a cartoon intermission – neighbors’ doors wide open to let in the fresh air and “Stop slamming that door,” everyone wants to move there neighborhood.
It stopped being that a long time ago.
So what! So, too bad! So, Levit said move to Levittown, own your own swing in the back yard and a white picket fence. No coloreds allowed.
So, you’re stuck.
So, there’s a hiring freeze.
So, Welfare said, “We can help . . . if you self-destruct.”
So, no more daddies, no more working families, no more know thy neighbor, no more love, no more way out.
That was fast. That was predictable. That was totally unnecessary.