There are a million ways to confine a man.
You can start early and
birth him into a world where there's
not enough milk,
not enough stimulus,
not enough time for an
early morning cuddle,
not enough lullabies,
not enough limits,
not enough anything and
lock him up into a
mentality of poverty
before he can say the
first of his very few
words.
You can wait until he understands and
tell him his father is a
no count hooligan that you
showed some mercy at a
weak point in your life and
teach him that men are a
terrible inconvenience.
That will create for him a
crisis of identity that will
bind him into a pseudo state of
remorse for being
born male.
You can wait until he runs and
tell him there is no place safe for a
boy to run full speed and fall down and
get up again.
Bandage him and pamper him and
shelter him from what it means to be the
alpha male in this great world,
and he will humble himself like a
lion raised in captivity on
beef jerky,
only feeding from handouts and
never reaching out for the greatness he
truly craves.
You can wait until he rebels and
strike him with meaningless consequences like an
unyielding tyrant.
Cover him in whelps without explanations like a
slave master.
Wrap him in punishments
like a poacher who does not speak his language and
does not care to acknowledge his divinity.
Then he will cower under all authorities,
held in a fear-laden silence,
unable to rise up and defend when
offenses are clearly committed against him.
You can wait until he loves and
crush him with the awareness of
all of his imperfections.
Belittle his every accomplishment and
minimize every bit of his learning.
Deny him conversation about great ideas.
He will then be a lone flower on a mountaintop,
unable to engage with a populace of daisies because of his
deep feelings of weed-dom,
unable to chase after the romances for which his heart
aches.
You don't have to cuff a man.
You don't have to cage a man.
You don't have to bind a man.
You don't have to kill a man.
Defang him.
Starve him.
Shame him.
Bruise him.
Silence him.
Isolate him.
Under
educate
him.
His humanity will forever be confined,
and he will become an animal.
-T. D. James-Moss
Friday, June 19, 2015
"The Rumbling," A Poetry Post for Sen. Clementa Pinckney
There is a great rumbling in the universe,
a pulsating, a shifting, a
a radiating, echoing,
unsettling in the frequency in our
earth space.
Because a resonating voice, a
room-filling blue and red atmosphere has been
suddenly removed, the
music of our reality is
infiltrated with some dissonance
on the second and fourth notes in this
4/4.
Because a great footstep has
suddenly stopped striking the ground,
there is a percussive silence
in the symphony.
Because a key lyricist is taken,
the feeling of the whole song has gone
grey, grey, grey and surprisingly
pianissimo grave.
The remaining words are
fluidly wafting into every crevice,
finding their way into minds and homes
across the great expanse,
unlimited by the absence of the speaker.
The great music of your life is
playing without respect to
life or death; it is
being transcribed for posterity and
being learned by new players.
Thousands of performers are
picking up your tempo and
repeating your great strains.
Some of us are crying,
which is right,
but some of us are
singing your songs:
songs for equality,
songs for fairness,
songs for justice,
songs for progress,
songs for faith.
Some of us are remembering the sound,
the feel, the rhythm of your work,
and watching in awe as it
manifests itself on
every connected screen in this great world.
We are watching you expand and
reach your hands into souls that were previously
inaccessible.
For a time there will be grief,
and the whole piece will play una corda
in remembrance of the original composer.
But in a short while,
now that the mantle has fallen,
another great voice will
lead sing
what you sang
with renewed passion,
with a fresh turn,
and you and all of the angels in heaven will dance!
Because the work must continue,
as you expected,
there will be,
there must be,
another player.
-T. D. James-Moss
a pulsating, a shifting, a
a radiating, echoing,
unsettling in the frequency in our
earth space.
Because a resonating voice, a
room-filling blue and red atmosphere has been
suddenly removed, the
music of our reality is
infiltrated with some dissonance
on the second and fourth notes in this
4/4.
Because a great footstep has
suddenly stopped striking the ground,
there is a percussive silence
in the symphony.
Because a key lyricist is taken,
the feeling of the whole song has gone
grey, grey, grey and surprisingly
pianissimo grave.
The remaining words are
fluidly wafting into every crevice,
finding their way into minds and homes
across the great expanse,
unlimited by the absence of the speaker.
The great music of your life is
playing without respect to
life or death; it is
being transcribed for posterity and
being learned by new players.
Thousands of performers are
picking up your tempo and
repeating your great strains.
Some of us are crying,
which is right,
but some of us are
singing your songs:
songs for equality,
songs for fairness,
songs for justice,
songs for progress,
songs for faith.
Some of us are remembering the sound,
the feel, the rhythm of your work,
and watching in awe as it
manifests itself on
every connected screen in this great world.
We are watching you expand and
reach your hands into souls that were previously
inaccessible.
For a time there will be grief,
and the whole piece will play una corda
in remembrance of the original composer.
But in a short while,
now that the mantle has fallen,
another great voice will
lead sing
what you sang
with renewed passion,
with a fresh turn,
and you and all of the angels in heaven will dance!
Because the work must continue,
as you expected,
there will be,
there must be,
another player.
-T. D. James-Moss
Saturday, June 13, 2015
"The Crazy," A Poetry Post
When we got married,
everybody thought we were crazy,
including us.
Neither of us had anything significant except
uncertainty in our careers,
uncertainty in our futures,
uncertainty in our nows.
And I would not advise anyone,
at any time,
to take vows
under those circumstances.
However,
this is how it went down,
and we still got married
before a justice of the peace
on a small island
in what was seemingly an
unimportant ceremony.
And two strangers spent two years
figuring out that they were--
in fact--
apparently crazy,
which was to be expected.
Some days I would wonder if
one of us would just wake up and
walk away, walk away, walk away and say
FORGET YOU KNEW ME BABY!
ENOUGH ENOUGH ENOUGH!
That was me.
But we still stayed.
And sometimes we held our breath together,
like when the doctors told us your hip had
disintegrated,
and we were like,
"That's crazy!"
But I suppose
that was to be expected.
Or when we tag-teamed stitch removal
after the hip replacement
by taking instructions
over the telephone and
getting examples from a
Youtube video.
That was crazy!
But,
I suppose,
that was to be expected.
Or when I did that biopsy
with a local anesthetic,
and we watched the doctor
slice open a lump on my breast
in broad daylight and
stitch it back.
We were both like,
"That was crazy!"
But,
considering the situation,
and the people involved,
that was to be expected.
Every time we woke up together,
it was surprising.
"God, we're still here.
How unexpected."
Sometimes we struck the world together
like a freight train.
WHAM!
Like that year they almost
placed our son in
special education,
and we went to war for a
Black boy's right to
grow up and be awkward
without being
medicated.
That's when we figured out that
two crazy people
united
could still
make things be
sane.
GIVE US OUR SON!
GIVE US OUR SON!
WE WILL EDUCATE HIM!
I swear to you,
in those moments,
the whole earth stood
still.
And that was crazy,
but to be expected.
Our son learned to respect the madness
of high expectations.
Every bit of craziness has
cost us a bit of time, a bit of
energy, a bit of youth and been
surprising.
And finally,
it seems like things are
stilling.
Now that we are weather worn and
whipped almost senseless in
whirlwinds of doctor visits and
unimaginable crises and
family interventions and
personal challenges,
again the world has stopped spinning
to allow us to choose a direction.
And neither of us is crazy enough
to choose first,
because time has taught us to
stand still and see
the salvation of the Lord,
to look for his hand on the horizon,
even a small fist.
For once in many years,
we're both just standing in the
center of a large room,
amazed by a panorama of options
for which
neither of us seem to have the energy.
That's crazy.
You know,
it is highly unlikely that
we will enjoy this time of stillness for long.
However,
I suppose,
that is to be expected,
considering.
For now we will watch and wait,
watch and wait as we have learned to do together,
together in a highly unlikely kind of synthesis.
And then,
when we know the direction in which we should go,
again,
we will be storms.
-T. D. James-Moss
everybody thought we were crazy,
including us.
Neither of us had anything significant except
uncertainty in our careers,
uncertainty in our futures,
uncertainty in our nows.
And I would not advise anyone,
at any time,
to take vows
under those circumstances.
However,
this is how it went down,
and we still got married
before a justice of the peace
on a small island
in what was seemingly an
unimportant ceremony.
And two strangers spent two years
figuring out that they were--
in fact--
apparently crazy,
which was to be expected.
Some days I would wonder if
one of us would just wake up and
walk away, walk away, walk away and say
FORGET YOU KNEW ME BABY!
ENOUGH ENOUGH ENOUGH!
That was me.
But we still stayed.
And sometimes we held our breath together,
like when the doctors told us your hip had
disintegrated,
and we were like,
"That's crazy!"
But I suppose
that was to be expected.
Or when we tag-teamed stitch removal
after the hip replacement
by taking instructions
over the telephone and
getting examples from a
Youtube video.
That was crazy!
But,
I suppose,
that was to be expected.
Or when I did that biopsy
with a local anesthetic,
and we watched the doctor
slice open a lump on my breast
in broad daylight and
stitch it back.
We were both like,
"That was crazy!"
But,
considering the situation,
and the people involved,
that was to be expected.
Every time we woke up together,
it was surprising.
"God, we're still here.
How unexpected."
Sometimes we struck the world together
like a freight train.
WHAM!
Like that year they almost
placed our son in
special education,
and we went to war for a
Black boy's right to
grow up and be awkward
without being
medicated.
That's when we figured out that
two crazy people
united
could still
make things be
sane.
GIVE US OUR SON!
GIVE US OUR SON!
WE WILL EDUCATE HIM!
I swear to you,
in those moments,
the whole earth stood
still.
And that was crazy,
but to be expected.
Our son learned to respect the madness
of high expectations.
Every bit of craziness has
cost us a bit of time, a bit of
energy, a bit of youth and been
surprising.
And finally,
it seems like things are
stilling.
Now that we are weather worn and
whipped almost senseless in
whirlwinds of doctor visits and
unimaginable crises and
family interventions and
personal challenges,
again the world has stopped spinning
to allow us to choose a direction.
And neither of us is crazy enough
to choose first,
because time has taught us to
stand still and see
the salvation of the Lord,
to look for his hand on the horizon,
even a small fist.
For once in many years,
we're both just standing in the
center of a large room,
amazed by a panorama of options
for which
neither of us seem to have the energy.
That's crazy.
You know,
it is highly unlikely that
we will enjoy this time of stillness for long.
However,
I suppose,
that is to be expected,
considering.
For now we will watch and wait,
watch and wait as we have learned to do together,
together in a highly unlikely kind of synthesis.
And then,
when we know the direction in which we should go,
again,
we will be storms.
-T. D. James-Moss
Friday, June 12, 2015
"Luxury: A Word Lesson for Black Youth," A Poetry Post
Luxury does not mean
purchasing a surround sound system
and a 50-inch television and
setting up an entertainment area
in the living room of your
apartment for your friends to
come over and watch the Super Bowl
once a year.
Luxury does not mean
driving a fifty-thousand-dollar car
for which you have to sacrifice eating
fresh meats and vegetables
in order to make your
monthly car note and insurance and your
annual tax payments.
Luxury does not mean
taking your tax refund every year and
going to a store of any kind,
online or off line,
to buy yourself a collection of new things
to show off to the people.
Luxury means to have extra without a cost.
Luxury means to have access without a purchase.
In a life of luxury,
you are able to drive a nice car
and enjoy it,
because you don't have to make
payments.
In a life of luxury,
you are able to host a Super Bowl party
and enjoy it,
because you have planned a portion of your
entertainment budget
to cover the event.
In a life of luxury,
you buy what you must have for business
and you have what you must have for pleasure
without hurting an ounce in your finances.
Luxury is the absence of debt.
It means nobody is calling your phone
two and three times a day
asking you to make a payment
on an account that is
about to go into
collections.
It means nobody put out an APB
to arrest you for
selling stolen or illicit goods.
It means
you can say
"I got it honest,"
and you know where your money is and
how to manage it in such a way that it
remains and grows.
Anybody that tells you
that luxury is anything else
don't know words.
Because luxury means excess,
and excess means extra,
and you can't have extra
when you owe people.
-T. D. James-Moss
purchasing a surround sound system
and a 50-inch television and
setting up an entertainment area
in the living room of your
apartment for your friends to
come over and watch the Super Bowl
once a year.
Luxury does not mean
driving a fifty-thousand-dollar car
for which you have to sacrifice eating
fresh meats and vegetables
in order to make your
monthly car note and insurance and your
annual tax payments.
Luxury does not mean
taking your tax refund every year and
going to a store of any kind,
online or off line,
to buy yourself a collection of new things
to show off to the people.
Luxury means to have extra without a cost.
Luxury means to have access without a purchase.
In a life of luxury,
you are able to drive a nice car
and enjoy it,
because you don't have to make
payments.
In a life of luxury,
you are able to host a Super Bowl party
and enjoy it,
because you have planned a portion of your
entertainment budget
to cover the event.
In a life of luxury,
you buy what you must have for business
and you have what you must have for pleasure
without hurting an ounce in your finances.
Luxury is the absence of debt.
It means nobody is calling your phone
two and three times a day
asking you to make a payment
on an account that is
about to go into
collections.
It means nobody put out an APB
to arrest you for
selling stolen or illicit goods.
It means
you can say
"I got it honest,"
and you know where your money is and
how to manage it in such a way that it
remains and grows.
Anybody that tells you
that luxury is anything else
don't know words.
Because luxury means excess,
and excess means extra,
and you can't have extra
when you owe people.
-T. D. James-Moss
"The Imprint," A Poetry Post
The whole world is waiting for you to put your foot down.
Your mother and father and
your sisters and brothers and
cousins and neighbors and
girl friends and guy friends and
spectators are
hovering about to
find out what will happen when you
find that mite spark of purpose
in your soul and
press a bit of your weight
into it.
All of your teachers and preachers and supporters are
holding their breaths and
taking large gasps in between near suffocations,
waiting for you to find your groove
in this dance.
All of the angels are
fixated in observation,
waiting for you to
put on the full jacket of your
electric potential.
There are stars in the sky that
will not die
before your light is
dispatched upon the earth.
There are homes that will not grow and
seeds that will not be planted.
There are hearts that will not heal and
minds that will not open.
There are lives that
will not be spared until
the shield of God's wisdom comes
pouring out of your mouth.
Everything is in stasis,
holding.
And yet,
everything is in motion,
and you could miss your moment.
You could miss your moment
to make the imprint
that will change the world instantly.
-T. D. James-Moss
Your mother and father and
your sisters and brothers and
cousins and neighbors and
girl friends and guy friends and
spectators are
hovering about to
find out what will happen when you
find that mite spark of purpose
in your soul and
press a bit of your weight
into it.
All of your teachers and preachers and supporters are
holding their breaths and
taking large gasps in between near suffocations,
waiting for you to find your groove
in this dance.
All of the angels are
fixated in observation,
waiting for you to
put on the full jacket of your
electric potential.
There are stars in the sky that
will not die
before your light is
dispatched upon the earth.
There are homes that will not grow and
seeds that will not be planted.
There are hearts that will not heal and
minds that will not open.
There are lives that
will not be spared until
the shield of God's wisdom comes
pouring out of your mouth.
Everything is in stasis,
holding.
And yet,
everything is in motion,
and you could miss your moment.
You could miss your moment
to make the imprint
that will change the world instantly.
-T. D. James-Moss
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