Monthly Archives: November 2019

Book-Therapy:

woman reading book

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Sometimes I’m just a girl, walking into a book store. Swimming in the minds of other writers- ah that’s life! We’re all a little crazy or maybe it’s just me, I can never find the exit-sign in those places. So I stay until almost closing, get a sense -long body lines come out of nowhere, and then there’s another book that catches my eye – I sniff first, tucking in the lastest cut-timber, ah Lanston Huges, The Negro Mother “Children I come back today, to tell you of the long dark way, that I had to climb, that I had to know”…

I move on: Oscar Wilde hitting me the face, The Ballad Reading Gaol “That fellows got to swing” I skip along the lines, chewing -sweetness and everything in between.

“Some love too little

Some love too long

Some do the deed with many tears

And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves; yet each man does not die.”

I look up for a minute, rub the cover of the book, gently place it back on the shelf. I wonder about book owners, are they like me? Do they melt? Do their eyes sparkle in delight of books? I know there are many parts of owning books. Selling books, books on display, one day I might know these operations but for now, it is my own personal luxury.

P.S. I always spend $50.00 plus in bookstores, I say its worth it.

signing off Kindness sis. Krissy

Dreamy: Going Out With A Bang!

snowman wallpaper

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I think the American Dream, has lynched so many of its own, so much so,

orangutan/green pupils are aglow,

I know its a slow burn. I’ve known its beautiful glint. Dazzled white snow.

I know its crumbling yellow -diamonds, jumping out the sky.

Ah-the rope, the magnetized weight has her clever edge,

if you should ever cough-up dreams outright,

Catch a sneeze at midnight, blow a prayer over flames

now that’s magic…

 

kindness sis. Krissy

 

 

Personal Journey:

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Hello, world, where the sun rises and falls against the backs of those in detention camps, where the mothers’ run to collect their children, catching tears, wrecking traps/wrecking balls of thunderous multitudes

oh the dream, the crashing and burned American Dream…

echoing, thirsty prayers to our people. prayers that run amuck, prayers that I thought, got to be stuck, at the bottom of “all God’s Children need shoes” Need : To be home, need to be wanted, need to be held by the tired arms’ of those who’ bleed on repetitive cycles – women, without the gag- women who would gladly bleed for their children,

women who’ve tasted grief, by the kiss of morning, swallowed by the beautiful dirt of the afternoon, where I met a South African’ woman she’d come to work with me but she’d had not a smile to wear. Said she didn’t remember how to properly put it on across the slash she’d call lips.

Said it wouldn’t be right after all the murderous-screams’ and still she couldn’t press out the stain of devastation in the hems and it seems- that kind of hatred. Dwarfs countries, I know this because in capitalism- I’ve heard my great grandfather’s stories about our own…

Old man Jack was a slave sent over on a Nigerian slave ship-  he too, endure the great and terrible passage, Old Man Jack was a man – the meanest of those who refuse to be broken, Said he was a man,  before the Americas’- and that his master could beat him all he wants, but after the great sun went down, Old Man Jack still refused to work.

And when his master died, Old man, Jack became free. He settled down in the mountains he married a Native  American(Blackfoot) woman, started drinking real-heavy like and froze to death in the snow. We’d soon move to El Paso, Del Rio, then on to Liberty and then onto San Antonio where my grandmother’s father, would orally pass down the story of Old Man Jack -the meanest man we know.

kindness sis. Krissy (original family photo ) 

 

 

The Way My Writings’ Work

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I think to be a women’s writer today, is to take- all the things that break you, everywhere I’ve made a raw, ruin in my life and instead attempting to put them into some sort of organized crime unit for the world to see. Well I’ve given those things to gratefulness…

kindness sis. Krissy

Teaching Kindness

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She was a sacred, gifted-hands of sorts 

smuggling her own kindness, into unwanted things 
she herself understood, a crippled kind of loneliness

understood gigantic forced place-mats by the door, 
 wheelchair-accessible ramps

the back door, off the side rails

disabled stalls in corner sized restrooms


she holds doors for the walking,
 they say- excuse me, nod a bit of thank you

with no legs of her own…

studies have shown 91 % of all teens believe kindness is dead – rather died long-ago 
she lives to teach them kindness without legs, 

of her own. 
kindness sis Krissy

Poets’ Sanctuary:

I wanna live with all the other poets in the world and declare that our darkness has always been meeting together. I found them outside my home, sitting idly on my front porch. 

Congregating, marinating, picking the pink “flesh off the bone.” Between city halls and the Ghetto.

I’ve watched them, roll up their sleeves and get involved in the Opium crisis. I’ve watched them, build suburban bombs and tare down high rises. I’ve watched them load the homeless-dead in Coroner’s van behind Popeye’s Chicken. I’ve watch them hold meetings -something about, the bodies that don’t belong to them. How they needed to criminalized abortion. I’ve watched them transform darkness into sheep’s clothing.

lead a prayer at a Prayer meeting,

start a war to tare the whole church down.

all because that church, would be better serviced as a parking lot. 


I’ve become an informant in the darkness, where it sleeps over street lights and battery-operated cars. I’ve watched lovers, dead in the middle of an argument, stop traffic, jump out their brand new Escalade, growl, and rattle against the city’s pavement.

Splashing their darkness like hot glue guns, pressing into the blues, ain’t that like the blues, once it starts there’s no stopping.    

Next door to the church on 21 street, there are no street lights, but a sour-somber, song, lingering making its way down onto where I lived,

by then, I had stepped outside, in my neon green bathrobe and declare not on my block, not on my watch, not on my stretch out towers of love where we share our burdens.

there is enough love to cover the darkness, there’s enough love to carry the weight of darkness – hold back the darkness from spilling onto innocent blood, there’s enough fish nets, bamboo traps, to hold it back for a little while longer

but I’m asking for a little more help,

so I declare, I wanna live with all the poets of world…

kindness sis. Krissy